7\  t  La 


LIBRARY  OF  AMERICAN  POETRY, 


RUFUS  DAWES. 


/ 

v  S>   E  a  ffi 


Sie  txmied_thp  tlojd  scroll  met  lier 
Tis   acne  ,_  the  -vefl  is  lenf  from  mi  s 


Published  by   Samuel    Colman.         '  , 


GERALDINE, 


ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS, 


AND 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


BY  RUFUS   DAWES. 


NEW-YORK: 
PUBLISHED    BY   SAMUEL    COLMAN. 

SOLD  BY  COLLINS,  KEESE  &  CO.  PEARL-STREET,  AND 

THOMAS,  COWPERTHWAIT  &  CO. 

PHILADELPHIA. 

1839. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1839,  by 

S.    COLMAN, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New- York. 


G.  F.  HOPKINS,  Printer,  2  Ann-street. 


AS  A  MEMORIAL 


OF    AFFECTION    AND    ESTEEM, 


$oems 


ARE    INSCRIBED 


TO   JOHN   CRANCH,  ESQ. 


BY    HIS    FRIEND, 


RUFUS  DAWES, 


0007*58 

*>rvjO  i  t^U 


PUBLISHER'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

THE  volume  here  offered  to  the  public,  is  proposed  as  the 
first  of  a  series  of  the  writings  of  American  Poets.  Though 
Poetry  has  not  heretofore  met  with  so  ready  a  reception  as 
other  works  of  fiction,  the  publisher  has  been  prompted  to 
undertake  it,  from  a  desire  of  aiding  our  native  literature, 
and  also  from  the  encouragement  of  many  judicious  adviserr. 

A  LIBRARY  OF  AMERICAN  POETRY  may  be  collected,  which 
would  reflect  honour  on  any  country,  and  add  to  the  reputa 
tion  of  our  own.  Several  of  our  Poets  are  well  appreciated, 
admired,  and  respected  abroad,  and  many  others  are  worthy  of 
ranking  with  them,  who  are  comparatively  unknown,  except 
in  the  circle  where  they  shine.  The  object  of  this  series  is 
to  publish  as  complete  a  LIBRARY  OF  AMERICAN  POETRY  as 
is  practicable; — the  volumes  to  appear  without  reference  to 
their  rank  in  popular  estimation.  Each  volume  will  be  em 
bellished  with  a  portrait  of  the  author,  and  a  vignette  title- 
page  engraved  on  steel,  in  the  highest  style  of  the  art ;  — 
the  whole  to  be  executed  uniformly  with  the  present  volume, 
and  in  no  degree  inferior  to  it  in  any  respect. 


16  PUBLISHER'S  ADVERTISEMENT. 

It  was  originally  intended  to  publish  this  volume  by  sub 
scription.  After  the  manuscript  was  purchased  by  the 
publisher,  this  course  was  taken,  and  with  flattering  suc 
cess  ;  but  the  plan  was  abandoned  on  the  ground  that 
American  Poetry  ought  to  be  published  independently,  un 
der  a  full  confidence  that  it  will  be  properly  encouraged. 
As  the  price  of  the  volume  is  considerably  augmented  since 
the  subscription,  subscribers  are  of  course  released  from 
any  obligation  to  take  it ;  but  the  publisher  has  the  satis 
faction  of  feeling,  that  while  he  labours  to  promote  the  re 
spectability  of  American  Literature,  he  has  an  intelligent 
community  to  sustain  him, 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Geraldine 19 

Athenia  of  Damascus 113 

Lancaster 205 

Katy-did .        .  223 

Margaret      ........  234 

The  Galley  Slave 238 

Painting 244 

Sunrise  from  Mount  Washington     ....  248 

Buried  Love 251 

Anacreontic 254 

Albuquerque 256 

Sonnet ,  257 

Spirit  of  Beauty 260 

Spring 262 

Song .*.  .     V.  263 

Yarico's  Lament       .......  265 

Mary  Hall    .     ' ;  267 

To  Cressid 270 

An  Introduction    .......  272 

Sonnet 274 

To  Genevieve       .......  275 

Fading  Flowers .  377 

Stanzas  for  Music 279 

To  an  Infant  sleeping  in  a  garden    ....  280 

Wilt  thou  go  far  away 281 

Anne  Boleyn 282 

Stanzas 283 

* 


18  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Spirit  of  Love 285 

TheBaya    .*       ,    ...       ,       '.        .        .        .  287 

Ode 289 

The  Deluge. 292 

Love  Unchangeable 296 

Moral  Beauty 298 

To  Genevieve           „ 300 

Stanzas  for  Music         .                 ....  302 

Lines  written  off  Point  Judith 304 

Gulnare 306 

Song 308 

I've  listened  at  Eve      ......  310 

Flora ...  311 

An  Inscription       .......  313 

Art  thou  happy,  lovely  Lady     .  314 

To  Ellen 315 

Written  in  the  Prospect  of  Death    .        .        .        .317 

Correspondences 319 

Dreams     .........  321 

Ode .,.,;  323 

The  Poet 329 

Mozart's  Requiem         ..>>..  331 

Ode 334 

Ode 337 

Despair 339 

The  Division  of  the  Earth    .        .        .  342 


GERALDINE. 


I  KNOW  a  spot  where  poets  fain  would  dwell, 
To  gather  flowers  and  food  for  afterthought, 

As  bees  draw  honey  from  the  rose's  cell, 
To  hive  among  the  treasures  they  have  wrought ; 

And  there  a  cottage  from  a  sylvan  screen, 

Sent  up  its  curling  smoke  amidst  the  green. 

Around  that  hermit-home  of  quietude, 

The  elm  trees  whispered  with  the  suihmer  air, 

And  nothing  ever  ventured  to  intrude, 
But  happy  birds  that  caroled  wildly  there, 

Or  honey-laden  harvesters  that  flew 

Humming  away  to  drink  the  morning  dew. 
2 


20  GERALDINE. 

Around  the  door  the  honey-suckle  climbed, 

And  Multa-ticrd  spread  her  countless  roses, 
;:  ;;A$d  ijever  minstrel  sar^'  nor  poet  rhymed 

Romantic  seen';  where  happiness  reposes, 
Sweeter  to  sense  than  that  enchanting  dell, 
Where  home-sick  memory  fondly  loves  to  dwell. 

Beneath  a  mountain's  brow  the  cottage  stood, 
Hard  by  a  shelving  lake,  whose  pebbled  bed 

Was  skirted  by  the  drapery  of  a  wood, 
That  hung  its  festoon  foliage  over  head, 

Where  wild  deer  came  at  eve,  unharmed,  to  drink, 

While  moonlight  threw  their  shadows  from  the  brink. 

The  green  earth  heaved  her  giant  waves  around, 
Where  through  the  mountain  vista,  one  vast  height 

Towered  heavenward  without  peer,  his  forehead  bound 
With  gorgeous  clouds,  at  times  of  changeful  light, 

While  far  below,  the  lake  in  bridal  rest, 

Slept  with  his  glorious  picture  on  her  breast. 

O  thou  who  seated  by  the  golden  wave 
Of  classic  Tiber,  stol'st  the  prismy  hues 

From  the  rich  landscape  that  Italia  gave,  — 
CLAUDE-!  whose  celestial  genius  could  transfuse 

Heaven's  beauty  into  earth's,  and  both  combine 

In  those  undying  paintings  only  thine  ; 


GERALDINE.  21 

Could'st  thou  have  travelled  to  our  western  sky, 
And  neared  the  setting  sun,  whose  vesture  spreads 

Its  gold  and  purple,  blent  harmoniously ; 
When  Autumn  chills  the  foliage,  and  sheds 

O'er  the  piled  leaves  among  the  evergreen, 

All  colours  and  all  teints  to  grace  the  scene  ; 

Thou  would'st  have  shown  that  there  are  other  climes 
Besides  Ausonia's  where  the  heart  may  gush 

With  overflowing  fulness,  and  at  times 
Feel  the  deep  influence  of  bland  nature's  hush, 

When  evening  steals  in  blushes  to  her  West, 

And  clouds  are  in  their  marriage  garments  drest. 

Not  all  unnoticed  are  thy  forms  of  love, 

Peerless  AMERICA  !  thy  mountains  rise 
With  cloudy  coronals,  and  tower  above 

The  vegetable  kingdom  to  the  skies, 
Calling  upon  thy  sons  to  gaze  with  thee, 
Starward  in  homage  of  the  Deity. 

Thy  rivers  swell  majestic  to  the  sea  — 

In  one  eternal  diapason,  pour 
Thy  cataracts,  the  hymn  of  liberty, 

Teaching  the  clouds  to  thunder,  —  on  thy  shore 
The  Tritons  dash  their  chariots  and  tear 
The  adamantine  echoes  from  their  lair, 


22  GERALDINE. 

Where  are  thy  bards,  AMERICA  1  The  lyre 
Hangs  in  its  listless  solitude  too  long ; 

Why  should  the  song  of  nightingales  expire, 
Because  the  rooks  are  screaming —  raise  their  song 

And  still  the  dissonance  their  silence  brings  !  l 

Bards  of  the  mountain  lyre,  awake  its  strings  ! 

And  thou  compeer  of  ZAMPIERI,  lend 
A  master-genius  to  Columbia's  glory, 

Touch  with  immortal  beauty,  and  extend 
Thy  name  with  her's  to  never-dying  story ; 

Rise  ALLSTON  !  the  Assyrian  Feast  detains 

A  hundred  million  hearts  —  a  world  complains. 

Within  that  cottage  girdled  with  green  wood, 
Dwelt  one  of  those  heroic  men  who  gave 

Their  early  strength  to  freedom,  who  withstood 
Opprobrium  and  looked  smiling  on  a  grave, 

So  might  their  sons  be  free.    Who  would  have  held 

Our  race  had  fathers  so  unparalleled  1  * 

The  men  who  deluged  BUNKER-HILL  with  blood, 
Have  left  a  progeny  that  stand  for  gold, 

As  firmly  as  for  Liberty  they  stood. 
Go  to  that  sacred  altar  and  behold 

Lean  Avarice  with  Gratitude  contending,. 

And  Liberty  her  backward  glances  sending  ! 


GERALDINE.  23 

Go,  see  the  fire  gleam  over  CHARLES  once  more, 
While  heaven  looks  down  in  blushes,  — 'tis  the  same 

Demoniac  vengeance  kindled  on  his  shore, 
To  light  up  rebel  Freedom's  funeral  flame. 

One  Hero  more,  and  emigration's  tide 

Will  kiss  the  Atlantic  on  its  eastern  side. 

'Twas  well  with  him  who  lorded  the  rich  soil, 
Where  so  much  beauty  and  true  grandeur  reigned  : 

WILTON  was  known  to  few,  since  years  of  toil 
A  fortune  and  that  sweet  retirement  gained  : 

His  earthly  hope  anchored  on  one  sweet  child, 

That  many  a  weary  hour  of  care  beguiled. 

How  like  the  heart  is  to  an  instrument, 

A  touch  can  wake  to  gladness  or  to  wo  ! 
How  like  the  circumambient  element, 

The  spirit  with  its  undulating  flow  ! 
The  heart  —  the  soul  —  O,  mother  Nature,  why 
This  universal  bond  of  sympathy  ! 

Why  should  chromatic  discord  charm  the  ear, 
And  smiles  and  tears  stream  o'er  with  troubled  joy, 

Unless  our  guardian  angels  hover  near, 
To  wake  some  sense  we  know  not  to  employ ; 

Intenser  faculties  of  love,  concealed, 

And  in  such  moments  painfully  revealed.  I 
2* 


24  GERALDINE. 

First,  like  the  breath  of  summer  o'er  the  strings 

Of  the  unfingered  lyre,  the  infant  heart 
Pours  forth  in  smiles  minutest  echoings, 

Responsive  to  its  mother's,  ere  the  art 
Of  waking  kindred  feelings  is  applied, 
While  every  string  has  melody  untried.. 

Then,  childhood's  trial  comes,  —  how  faint  its  pleasures  ! 

The  gossamer  that  sets  the  diamond  dew 
Full  of  the  daybeams,  like  enjoyment  measures, 

Ere  the  rude  wind  has  torn  its  web  in  two. 
Who  would  go  back  to  childhood,  for  the  brief 
Illusion  that  but  gilds  its  darker  grief? 

To  feel  an  unintelligible  being  — 
To  roam  in  faery-land  and  dream  awake  — 

To  strain  the  gaze  intensely,  without  seeing  — 
To  thirst  —  yet  know  not  how  our  thirst  to  slake ; 

Such  are  its  misnamed  pleasures ;  —  who,  with  power, 

Would  be  a  child  again  one  little  hour  3 

Then,  comes  the  breathing-time  of  young  romance, 
The  June  of  life,  when  Summer's  earliest  ray 

Warms  the  red  arteries,  that  bound  and  dance, 
With  soft,  voluptuous  impulses  at  play, 

While  the  full  heart  sends  forth  as  from  a  hive, 

A  thousand  winged  messengers  alive. 


GERALDINE. 

These,  as  they  murmur  o'er  Love's  nectar-cup, 
With  sympathetic  feeling  light  among 

Hyblsean  roses,  till  they  garner  up 
Sweet  treasures,  where  the  lonely  bird  has  sung 

His  unavailing  love,  —  and  thus  they  fill 

The  cells  of  memory,  against  future  ill. 

And  GERALDINE  was  one  of  those  few  maids, 
Who  live  to  throw  a  glory  on  their  sex, 

Not  made  for  routs  and  balls  and  masquerades, 
And  heartless  fashion's  follies  that  perplex ; 

Her  heart  was  formed  for  love  and  seemed  to  vie 

With  virtue's  self  in  active  charity. 

Her  household  duties  done,  at  summer  eve, 
She  loved  to  sit  without  the  cottage  door, 

And  watch  the  sunbeams,  as  they  took  their  leave 
Of  bush  and  tree,  while  shadows  gathered  o'er 

The  distant  mountain's  brow,  when  all  was  still, 

Listening  to  hear  the  plaintive  Whip-poor-will 

There  is  a  glory  in  the  dying  day, 

That  hallows  meditation,  and  subdues 

The  willing  heart  with  such  effectual  sway, 
While  mind  with  nature  holds  sweet  interviews, 

That  passion  sleeps,  while  heavenward  hopes  ascend, 

To  dream  of  pleasures  that  shall  never  end. 


25 


26  GERALDINE. 

Thus  was  her  virgin  mind  by  nature  led 
To  look  beyond  the  sphere  of  this  fair  earth, 

While  in  her  ample  page,  the  vision  read 
High  correspondences  of  heavenly  birth, 

And  pure  philosophy,  whose  cloudless  eye 

Looks  thoughtfully  on  man's  humanity. 

Her  heart  was  formed  for  universal  love 
And  self-communion,  —  not  a  flower  that  bent 

Its  petals  to  the  sun-,  but  from  above 

Suggested  to  her  thought  some  kind  intent ; 

And  she  would  nurse  their  buds,  as  if  a  sense 

Perceived  her  bosom's  kindred  innocence* 

How  shall  I  paint  her  beauty  ?  —  I  have  seen 
A  Magdalene  of  GUIDO'S,  where  was  wrought 

Her  still  expression,  when  her  brighter  mien 
Was  shadowed  by  the  holiness  of  thought ; 

Yet  was  its  beauty  more  divinely  pure, 

Transcending  art's  supremest  portraiture. 

'Twere  easier  far  to  paint  the  hues  of  heaven, 
When  morn,  resplendent  with  new  glory,  wakes, 

Or  steal  the  varying  teints  by  sunset  given 
To  the  gold-crested  wave,  the  while  it  breaks, 

Than  to  embody  the  harmonious  grace, 

That,  ever  changing,  flitted  o'er  her  face. 


GERALDINE.  27 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  sapphire  of  deep  air, 

The  garb  that  distance  robes  elysium  in, 
But  O,  so  much  of  heaven  lingered  there, 

The  wayward  heart  forgot  its  blissful  sin, 
And  worshipped  all  religion  well  forbids, 
Beneath  the  silken  fringes  of  their  lids. 

She  had  a  look  that  seemed  to  reach  afar 

Some  lovely  object  distant  from  our  sight, 
As  if  communing  with  some  brighter  star, 

Or  drinking  in  an  angel's  smile  of  light : 
Some  thought  her  reason  touched,  SD  rapt  her  air, 
Whene'er  her  spirit  lifted  her  in  prayer. 

She  loved  to  roam  in  SPENSER'S  faery  bowers, 

And  drink  delicious  music  from  his  page, 
And  while  she  listened  to  the  dropping  showers, 

Mark  how  his  courtly  heroes  could  engage, 
Well  pleased  to  see  triumphant  virtue  rise, 
And  hold  a  bosom's  purity  the  prize. 

She  loved  to  lend  imagination  wing, 
And  link  her  heart  with  JULIET'S  in  a  dream, 

And  feel  the  music  of  a  sister  string 
That  thrilled  the  current  of  her  vital  stream, 

Or  on  her  faery  isle,  to  laugh  and  cry 

With  sweet  MIRANDA,  and  yet  know  not  why.  * 


28  GERALDINE. 

Scarce  sixteen  summers  o'er  her  loved  abode 
Had  heard  the  green  leaves  rustle,  since  her  sire 

Wept  o'er  the  infant  that  its  being  owed 
To  a  fond  mother's  death.     Thus  hopes  conspire 

To  cheat  the  human  heart ;  our  wishes  crave 

That  which  we  do  not  dream  must  prove  a  grave. 

But  WILTON  loved  his  child,  and  in  her  face, 
Smiled  to  behold  the  swelling  buds  of  thought, 

And  every  lineament  distinctly  trace, 

Of  her  he,  waking,  found  not  where  he  sought : 

His  ADELAIDE  was  gone,  —  but  O  how  pure 

His  joy  while  gazing  on  this  miniature ! 

There,  in  the  green,  retiring  solitude, 

The  varying  face  of  nature  marked  the  hours, 

As  sunshine  drew  the  shadows  round  the  wood, 
Or  kissed  the  orient  crystal  from  the  flowers, 

Or  barred  the  west  with  gold,  or  called  away 

The  beams  that  veiled  the  burning  stars  all  day. 

Why  has  there  been  no  Eden  here  below, 
Without  a  serpent  1  —  Unalloyed  delight 

Lives  but  a  moment,  and  the  happiest  know 
An  earlier  canker  than  the  rose's  blight : 

But  so  it  is,  and  they  alone  are  sure, 

Who,  midst  the  worst,  can  patiently  endure. 


GERALDINE.  29 

Love  is  the  demon  of  man's  paradise  : 
A  few  brief  hours  we  thread  its  garden  alleys, 

And  the  bright  pebbles  of  our  path  suffice 
To  lure  us  onward,  while  the  flowery  valleys 

And  sheltered  nooks  fill  up  our  idle  spaces, 

Till  other  things  come  crowding  in  their  places. 

The  virgin  lily,  in  her  innocent  joy, 

Holds  up  her  cup  brimful  of  tremulous  dew, 

And  wastes  her  last  bright  bubble  to  decoy 
The  fickle  light  that  stays  an  hour  to  woo, 

And  coldly  leaves  her,  when  she  bows  her  head, 

And  joins  the  million  broken-hearted  dead. 

O  what  a  world  of  beauty  fades  away 

With  the  winged  hours  of  youth,  —  deep-breathing  plea- 
That  still  renewed  with  every  coming  day,  [sure, 

And  filled  affection's  store-house  with  its  treasure ; 
How  does  it  pass  away,  and  passing,  prove, 
How  much  is  lost  from  ignorance  of  love  ! 

'Tis  said  there  is  a  tide  in  men's  affairs 
That  leads  to  fame  and  fortune,  —  there  is  too, 

A  tide  in  every  bosom  that  upbears 

Upon  its  wave  an  arch  of  mingled  hue : 

The  light  of  early  hope  that  cannot  fade, 

Till  memory's  sunset  wraps  the  heart  in  shade. 


30  GERALDINE. 

It  springs  from  early  grief  that  knows  no  guile, 
And  lifts  the  eye  to  heaven,  —  still  it  bends 

Through  weal  and  wo,  till  passion's  funeral  pile 
Smoulders  in  flameless  ashes,  —  it  extends 

To  life's  cold  verge,  and  fading,  leaves  the  gaze 

On  that  immortal  bourne  which  bounds  our  days. 

And  so  we  love  the  memory  of  love, 

Weaving  around  the  phantom  of  a  dream, 

Ideal  garlands,  such  as  fancy  wove 

In  early  youth,  building  a  world  we  deem 

Secure  from  every  ill  —  a  world  our  own :  — • 

Who  would  exchange  such  empire  for  a  throne  1 

'How  charming  is  divine  philosophy  !' 
Philosophy  I  mean  of  one's  own  brewing, 

The  art  of  making  up  the  loss  of  eye, 

And  viewing  with  a  transcendental  viewing. 

For  every  block  of  marble  holds  a  Venus, 

With  nothing  but  unchiseled  stone  between  us. 

O  sage  of  Koningsberg,  immortal  KANT, 

O  FlCHTE,  SCHELLING,  HEGEL,  and  COUSIN, 

Compared  with  you,  how  very  small  and  gant 

Is  BRUCKER  with  his  metaphysic  gang ! 
What  wells  of  ink  you've  wasted,  but  to  know 
One  truth  revealed  to  reason  long  ago.* 


GERALDINE.  31 

1  pity  him  who  loves  to  speculate 

On  the  sublime  relations  of  the  soul, 
Yet  narrows  down  his  views  at  such  a  rate, 

He'd  measure  heaven  with  a  ten-foot  pole  — 
Who  dares  not  dive  in  those  forbidden  wells, 
Where  truth,  with  falsehood  mingled,  ever  dwells, 

In  MILTON'S  Satan  there  is  so  much  good, 

That  were  it  but  abstracted  from  the  evil, 
A  very  fair  ideal  angel  would 

Spring  from  the  mixed  ingredients  of  a  devil : 
'Tis  thus  with  every  intellectual  demon 
The  rankest  infidel  would  dare  to  dream  on. 

SPINOZA,  MIRABAUD,  and  DAVID  HUME  — 
How  frightful  to  the  fancy  !  how  contagious 

The  pestilence  they  bear !  even  to  presume 
To  mention  them,  to  some  may  seem  outrageous — 

The  crucible  of  truth,  some  day,  though  late, 

Will  every  false  alloy  precipitate. 6 

There's  scarce  a  speculative  truth  unmixed 
With  some  foul  error — and  till  men  can  bear 

To  keep  their  intellectual  vision  fixed 
Upon  the  sundisc  spotted  everywhere, 

The  mind,  bewildered,  must  be  tempest-tost, 

in  faithless,  hopeless,  'wandering  mazes'  lost. 
3 


32  G  E  R  A  L  D  I  N  E . 

'  On  evil  days  though  fallen,  and  evil  tongues,'  — 
To  take  a  line  from  the  great  living  dead,  — 

Bards  will  make  poems,  though  the  critic  bungs 
Their  eyes  up  for  their  pains,  — myself  would  wed, 

But  for  polygamy,  the  sisters  nine, 

Though  courting  them  is  certainly  divine. 

Scribendi  cacoethes,  though  it  shocks 
A  scribbler  like  myself  to  say,  in  fact  is, 

An  ousted  tenant  of  Pandora's  box, 

And  claims  the  care  of  any  doctor's  practice, 

Who,  if  he  sedulously  go  about  his 

Affairs,  will  find  it  commoner  than  gout  is. 

For  gout  may  sometimes  let  a  sinner  rest, 
And  Colchicum  will  help  him  for  a  season, 

Unless  it  leave  a  card  within  his  breast* 
And  then  there  is  no  help  from  human  reason  : 

The  itch  of  writing  is,  and  e'er  has  been* 

To  ail  who  have  it,  like  the  gout  within. 

The  paper-makers  grow  as  rich  as  CRCESUS, 
And  quills  are  getting  dear  as  ostrich  plumes  ; 

Fine  times  for  all  who  have  a  chance  to  fleece  us, 
While  we  are  walking  monuments  for  tombs. 

•  O  AMOS  COTTLE,  for  a  moment  think, 

What  meager  profits  spring  from  pen  and  ink.' 6 


GERALDINE. 

The  bard  who  wrote  these  verses  in  a  fury, 
Did  little  dream,  the  while,  what  he  was  doing ; 

He  was  not  yet  connected  with  old  Drury, 

And  still  was  smarting  under  Scotch  reviewing  ; 

He  little  dreampt  each  letter  worth  a  guinea, 

The  while  he  dubbed  a  brother  rhymer,  ninny. 

He  poured  his  heart's  full  affluence  in  song, 
And  good  with  bad  went  reconciled  together, 

Right,  eloquently  vindicating  wrong, 
Like  rainbows  bending  over  stormy  weather  : 

His  faults  were  those  of  men,  but  who  shall  find 

The  heir  to  his  sublimity  of  mind  1 

BYRON  !  high-priest  of  nature,  self-abased, 
In  the  great  caste  thou  could'st  not  wholly  lose, 

Thou  problem  of  humanity,  I've  traced 
The  tangled  thread,  with  all  its  misty  hues, 

That  bound  thy  complex  being,  and  reversed 

Through  a  mirage  of  mind,  what  goodness  nursed. 

Endowed  with  faculties,  whose  reach  of  thought 
Could  grasp  all  knowledge,  with  a  mind,  whose  eye 

Looked  into  nature,  with  a  bosom  fraught 
With  animal  passion  and  kind  sympathy, 

How  could'st  thou  help  spreading  thy  mighty  wings, 

And  soaring  upward  among  brighter  things  ; 


&  GE  RALDINE. 

And  bearing  with  thee  in  thy  heavenward  flight, 
That  love,  imagination  wrought  below, 

That  it  might  bear  a  touch  of  purer  light, 
And  coincide  with  what  the  angels  know, 

Within  that  luminous  ocean,  where  all  rays 

Converge  to  one  intoxicating  blaze  1 

O  God  !  that  one  should  fall  from  such  a  height, 
On  the  Daedalian  wings  of  human  thought, 

Which,  ever,  as  they  rise  above  our  sight, 

Melt,  while  the  mind  with  dizziness  distraught, 

Sinks  to  that  hell,  whence  murky  vapours  rise, 

In  blasphemy,  to  curse  the  innocent  skies. 

Reason  converses  with  humanity, 

With  nought  beyond  ; 7 — that  reason  is  a  scale 
By  which  to  measure  higher  things,  'tis  vanity, 

One  moment  to  pretend :  —  therefore  prevail 
Iron-hearted  doubt  and  Atheism's  brood, 
And  truth  profaned  by  falsehood's  hardihood. 

Such  is  the  rock  that  wrecks  so  many,  tost 
On  the  wide  sea  of  speculative  daring ; 

Here  BYRON  foundered,  SHELLEY,  too,  was  lost, 
A  doom  so  many  thousands  now  are  sharing, 

Who  had  they  known  the  limit  of  all  thought, 

Had  never  perished  in  the  gulf  they  sought 


GERALDINE.  35 

Without  the  Palinurus  of  self-science, 

BYRON  embarked  upon  the  stormy  sea, 
To  adverse  breezes  hurling  his  defiance, 

And  dashing  up  the  rainbows  on  his  lee, 
And  chasing  those  he  made  in  wildest  mirth, 
Or  sending  back  their  images  to  earth. 

He  saw  APOLLO  from,  the  stormy  deep, 
Lift  up  his  water-spouts  to  scare  the  flood ; 

He  saw  him  rouse  the  Python  from  his  sleep, 
And  deluge  superstition  in  her  blood  : 

Blinded  with  light,  his  emulous  arrow  sheers, 

And  meek  Religion  bows  herself  in  tears ! 

Alas,  the  emptiness  of  human  good ! 

Men  drew  a  picture  false  in  light  and  shade, 
And  held  it  up  as  his  similitude — 

And  BYRON  chose  to  be  the  thing  they  made. 
Thus  reputation  often  may  confer 
On  men  an  artificial  character. 8 

VOLTAIRE,  while  yet  a  boy,  was  told  that  he 

Was  marked  for  something  strange, — that  he  would  bear 
The  rallying  flag  of  infidelity ; 

From  that  time  forth,  it  was  his  secret  care 
To  flatter  that  bad  hope  ; — he  did,  and  died. 
Here  are  a  thousand  histories  beside. 
3* 


36  GERALDINE. 

Poets,  like  fish,  so  sang  a  modern  poet, 
Do  seldom  shine  until  they  are  decayed ; 

His  language  is  more  racy,  could  I  show  it, 
But  people  are  so  squeamish,  I'm  afraid. 

There  never  was  a  truer  dictum  said, 

For  bards  are  rarely  thought  of  till  they're  dead. 

The  popularity  of  those  who  write, 

Is  more  uncertain  than  an  April  day, 
Much  like  a  lantern  hanging  from  a  kite, 

Which  boys  make  out  of  pumpkins  in  their  play : 
It  seems  a  meteor,  but  the  clouds  may  wash 
The  fragile  kite,  when  pumpkin  comes  down  squash, 

But  then  what  signifies  a  little  puffing, 

Who  cares  for  being  blown  up  like  a  bladder  1 

The  goose  that  has  the  largest  share  of  stuffing, 
Has  very  little  reason  to  be  gladder  : 

Men,  now-a-days  reverse  what  HOMER  brags, 

And  raise  the  wind,  before  they  fill  their  bags. 

There's  a  vile  taste  abroad,  and  what  is  worse, 
It  seems  to  grow  more  morbid  every  year : 

One  might  as  well  darn  stockings  and  turn  nurse, 
Make  pap  for  babes,  and  *  chronicle  small  beer,' 

As  cater  for  the  bloated  thing  that  droops, 

Like  a  sick  Alderman  on  wholesome  soups. 


GERALDINE.  37 

Tis  a  sad  truth  in  letters,  while  the  love 

Of  money  makes  us  more  than  patriotic ; 
There's  no  necessity  for  one  to  prove 

An  aphorism  native  or  exotic, 
For  public  spirit,  alias  speculation, 
Does  wonders  for  a  dollar-saving  nation. 9 

I've  known  a  person  speculate  in  churches, 
Who  went ' to  meeting '  twice  a  day  at  least, 

Yet  seldom  left  the  table  without  lurches, 
And  very  often  went  to  bed  a  beast ; 

He'd  give  a  fip  to  clothe  a  beggar's  shins, 

And  cover  thus  a  multitude  of  sins. 

And  this  was  Charity !  the  laying  by 

Of  treasure  in  high  heaven,  —  O  human  pride ! 

O  vanity  supreme  !  as  if  the  eye 
Of  the  Eternal  Spirit  could  abide 

Hypocrisy  so  monstrous,  and  be  mocked 

With  outward  show  of  good,  where  vice  is  locked. 

All  men  must  live,  —  indeed  'tis  very  rare, 

To  find  a  person  starving  in  our  days ; 
Some  men  feed  well  on  sumptuous  daily  fare, 

On  canvass-backs  and  sundry  other  ways, 
And  many,  who  to  ruin  are  turned  over, 
But  'go  to  grass,'  to  roll  themselves  'in  clover.' 


f  GERALDINE. 

Some  know  the  world  a  goose  and  club  together, 
In  hope  to  find  a  standing  for  their  legs, 

One  salts  its  tail  to  rob  it  of  a  feather, 
Another  kills  it  for  the  golden  eggs : 

Friendship  in  trade  abandoned  store  and  cottage, 

About  the  time  that  ESAU  sold  his  pottage. 

The  silver  age  of  poesy  is  past, 

When  lady-love  so  loudly  woke  the  lyre, 

And  bards  on  such  a  frigid  one  are  cast, 
I  hardly  dare  to  one  lone  smile  aspire, 

That  hangs  upon  the  curling  lip  of  rose, 

Like  a  clear  dew-drop  quivering  ere  it  flows. 

But  if  there  be  no  thrilling  glance  of  love, 
No  siren  whisper*  no  delicious  smile, 

No  murmuring  voice  to  hush  the  turtle-dove, 
Nor  eye  to  light  up  Calebs'  funeral-pile,  — 

If  my  sad  heart  of  hearts  with  true-love  grapples, 

I'll  hie  away  and  '-comfort  me  with  apples.' 

They  say  that  gold  can  never  charm  Love's  eyes, 
Poor  fellow,  doomed  to  darkness,  like  the  miners ! 

But  then  a  truer  sense  the  lost  supplies, 

In  touch,  that  never  can  mistake  the  shiners  : 

He  wears  a  little  lens  set  round  with  gold, 

Enough  to  warm  a  heart  however  cold. 


G  E  R  A  L  DINE. 

,, 

Love  long  since  left  the  myrtle-shade  for  towns, 
He  did  not  like  to  hear  the  green  leaves  rustle  ; 

His  taste  for  nature  changed  for  silken  gowns, 
And  so  he  left  the  groves  for  ball-room  bustle ; 

And  now  no  perfume  from  the  roses  thrown, 

Can  charm  him  like  Maccassar  or  Cologne. 

Then,  while  I  sing  of  Cydnian-flowing  brooks, 
Or  woodbine  where  the  humming-bird  may  revel, 

I'll  have  an  eye  on  other  things  with  hooks, 
Wherefrom  poor  mortals  dangle  to  the  devil, 

And  artificial  curls  and  forms  that  raise 

The  market-price  of  cotton  now-a-days. 

I  am  no  woman-hater,  for  I  prize 

The  gentle  sex,  though  some  have  tongues  of  cankei 
Though  more  of  art  than  simple  nature  lies 

Harboured  within  their  little  hearts  at  anchor ; 
Society's  a  garden,  where  the  rose 
Is  thorny,  from  the  soil  in  which  it  grows. 

Near  where  old  WILTON'S  cottage  blest  the  scene, 
Uprose  a  lordly  seat  where  fashion  dwelt, 

When  summer  flushed  the  forest-trees  in  green, 
Or  young  VERTUMNUS  saw  POMONA  melt ; 10 

A  princely  family  were  they,  and  proud, 

Who  rode  in  carriages  and  spurned  the  crowd. 


40  GERALDINE. 

Acus  had  been  a  dashing  Bond-street  tailor, 
Some  few  short  years  before,  who  took  his  measures 

So  carefully,  he  always  cut  the  jailor, 

And  filled  his  coffers  with  exhaustless  treasures  ; 

Then  with  his  wife,  a  son,  and  three  fair  daughters, 

He  sunk  the  goose  and  straightway  crossed  the  waters. 

O  land  of  liberty,  the  last  and  best, 

Where  all  men  think,  who  can  think,  as  they  please, 
Thou  who  hast  feathered  many  a  hero's  nest, 

Thou  who  hast  suffered  many  a  bard  to  freeze, 
What  witching  skill  hast  thou,  what  strange  agility, 
In  tricking  out  a  kitchen-bred  nobility  ! 

So  Acus  found  it,  when  his  guineas  flashed, 
Where  folly  could  be  dazzled,  and  his  girls 

In  laces  flourished,  and  in  jewels  dashed 
With  alabaster  necks  set  round  with  pearls  : 

Each  wore  an  eye-glass  and  a  conch  medallion, 

And  spake  a  little  French  and  sang  Italian, 

Then  beaux  began  to  simper  at  their  sides, 
And  melt  each  other's  ices  with  their  sighs, 

And  calculate  the  chances  for  their  brides, 
And  fix  their  collars  and  adjust  their  ties  : 

While  the  fair  girls  outshone  the  very  day, 

And  thought  themselves  at  every  thing  aufait. 


GERALDINE. 

But  ALICE  was  the  belle ;  that  is,  she  had 
More  manner,  tact  and  beauty  than  the  others  ; 

She  tried  to  suit  all  comers  like  her  dad, 
And  so  succeeded  with  all  sister's  brothers  ; 

That  not  a  beau  for  twenty  miles  around, 

But  he  was  in  her  silken  jesses  bound* 

Her  clear  blue  eyes  beneath  a  forehead  fair* 
Arched  like  an  Iris,  looked  beneath  their  lashea 

Like  morning-glories,  and  her  curling  hair 
Threw  off  such  light  as  from  the  laurel  flashes, 

When  the  half  hidden  sunbeam  mellows  down 

The  laughing  face  of  summer  to  a  frown. 

She  had  an  innocently  downcast  look^ 
And  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes  of  blue* 

It  seemed  as  if  her  features  were  a  book, 

Where  sweet  affection  lettered  love  for  you  ; 

And  there  you  saw  the  timid  thought  revealed, 

Like  modest  PALLAS  from  behind  her  shield. 

Fair  prototype  of  ALICE,  —  by  the  way, 
These  characters  are  wholly  drawn  from  life,  — - 

Unmoulded  beauty,  chiseled  into  day,  " 
And  just  cut  out  to  be  a  PELHAM'S  wife ; 

How  memory  loves  in  soft,  voluptuous  dreams, 

To  watch  your  eyes  and  sun  her  in  their  beams. 


41 


42  GERALDINE. 

Tis  sweet  to  fall  in  love  when  we  are  boys, 
Tis  sweet  to  make  a  faery's  pinions  flutter  ; 

O  halcyon  days  when  valentines  and  toys 
Set  off  the  fragrancy  of  '  bread  and  butter  ;' 

I've  walked  a  hundred  miles  in  boyhood's  prime, 

To  see  a  pair  of  belled  and  wake  their  chime. 

Fair  prototype  of  ALICE  —  should  these  lines 
Induce  your  eyes  to  bend  their  gaze  upon  them, 

If  peradventure  your  lone  heart  inclines 

To  recognise  your  features  as  you  con  them, 

Turn  back  your  year-book  but  a  dozen  pages, 

And,  after  dinner,  sigh  o'er  both  our  ages. 

True,  we've  not  gained  'the  sear  and  yellow  leaf,' 
Nor  have  the  flakes  of  winter  hinted  crutches, 

But  yet,  I  ween,  the  burglars  care  and  grief 
Have  both  of  us  at  times  within  their  clutches. 

HAMLET  was  not  alone,  perhaps  you  know, 

When  he  had  that  within  which  passeth  show. 

But  ALICE  was  a  woman,  and  at  length 
Resigned  her  true  affections  all  for  nought ; 

She  loved  with  all  her  sex's  soul  and  strength, 
But  her  ADONIS  was  not  to  be  caught : 

And  so  she  loved  the  more,  yet  hated,  loving, 

For  love's  all-complex  pulleys  failed  of  moving. 


GERALDINE.  43 

Within  the  halls  of  fashion,  she  had  seen 
A  youth  among  the  rest,  who  stood  alone, 

Of  gentle  manners  and  of  noble  mien, 
And  him  she  would  have  cherished  as  her  own ; 

But  WALDRON  was  « a  lion,'  who  had  come, 

Not  to  anticipate  millennium. 

Who  would  not  be  a  lion  1  —  one  to  whom 

The  restless  ladies  every  fidget  owe, 
The  cynosure  of  every  drawing-room, 

Whose  motto  is  monstrari  digito ; 
Who  awes  the  great  menagerie  of  fops, 
In  admiration  at  his  whisker  crops. 

For  whiskers  are  enough  to  make  a  lion, 

So  they  are  large  enough  to  stuff  a  bed, 
Mattresses  being  very  good  to  die  on, 

And  —  see  MONTAIGNE  what  he  opinioned ;  — 
ALPHESIBCEUS  might  renounce  his  jumps, 
To  see  saltantes  satyros  in  pumps. u 

Now  there  are  many  different  kinds  of  lions, 
As  there  are  wares,  from  porcelain  to  'Brummagem,' 

Some  manufactured  by  the  curling  irons, 
And  others,  the  museums,  should  you  rummage  'ern, 

Could  only  match,  —  TECUMSEH  for  example, 

Done  up  at  Alexandria,  is  a  sample. 
4 


44  GERALDINE. 

But  then  the  surest  way  to  lionize, 

Is,  after  all,  to  travel,  — that's  enough ; 

Throw  off  your  modesty  and  damn  your  eyes, 
'  Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff:' 

Take  every  fort  by  storm ;  —  there's  nothing  vexes, 

Like  mauvaise  honte  the  softer  of  the  sexes. 

The  hero  left  unhanged  to  grace  this  history, 
Obtained  his  lionship  by  foreign  travel, 

Seductive  manners  and  a  certain  mystery 
Of  character,  so  pleasant  to  unravel ; 

'Twas  whispered  he  had  shot  his  man,  —  but  certain, 

All  his  misdeeds  were  done  behind  the  curtain. 

In  height  he  was  lord  BOLINGBROKE'S  ideal, 

Five  feet  eleven ;  —  his  hair  both  dark  and  curly, 

Fell  idly  o'er  a  brow  almost  unreal, 
So  intellectual  was  it  and  so  girly  : 

And  then  his  Phidian  features,  finely  chiseled, 

The  coldest  heart  incontinently  wizzled. 

I'm  sorry  that  the  unity  of  time 

Cannot  o'erleap  a  hundred  equinoxes, 

Else  would  I  show  how  hard  it  is  to  climb, 
Unless  you  are  a  lion  among  foxes ; 

A  season  at  the  Capitol,  at  least, 

Is  wanting  now  to  graduate  the  beast 


GERALDINE.  45 

At  this  great  University,  the  candidate 

Must  enter  as  a  bachelor  of  hearts, 
Ranking  according  to  his  dandy-date, 

And  estimated  justly  by  his  parts ; 
Without  which  requisites,  no  human  college 
Will  grant  one  chaplet  from  the  tree  of  knowledge. 

Lions,  like  certain  nouns  of  some  philologists, 

Are  of  the  neuter  gender,  sans  declension, 
While  all  such  accidents  as  need  apologists, 

With  them  have  no  accusative  to  mention ; 
All  cases  therefore  yield  to  them  by  syntax, 
While  some  they  never  can  decline,  like  pin-tax. 

But  I  am  getting  into  HORNE'S  enclosure, 

The  labyrinth  of  syllables  and  sentences, 
So  I  resume  the  thread  of  my  disclosure, 

Like  ARIADNE'S  to  regain  the  entrances  : 
In  time  1  shall  attempt  a  grand  descensus 
Averni,  and  the  theme  will  recompense  us. 

Our  hero  was  a  youth  of  noble  blood, 

"Pis  true  he  had  no  heraldry  to  cite, 
But  his  hair  curled,  and  this  was  understood 

As  prima  facie  evidence  of  right, 
If  not  of  title,  and  his  tiny  hand 
Betrayed  the  fabric,  though  'twas  contraband. 


46  GERALDINE. 

• 

Where  he  was  born,  was  not  exactly  known. 

It  was  enough  that  he  had  condescended  , 
To  leave  awhile  the  glitter  of  a  throne, 

And  visit  rebel  yankees  that  pretended 
To  talk  of  liberty,  and  treat  the  fishes 
To  tea,  served  up  in  chests  instead  of  dishes.  " 

Now  WALDRON  brought  with  him  across  the  seas, 

A  dinner-ticket,  alias,  a  carte  blanche, 
Caught  at  by  democratic  humbugees 

For  entertaining  strangers  with  a  haunch. 
And  being  laughed  at  even  to  their  faces, 
And  regularly  done  in  forms  and  chases. 

Safe  at  the  pier,  our  hero  sent  his  'plunder' 
Up  to  the  old  Exchange  —  and  took  his  quarters 

Seven  stories  high,  which  made  him  somewhat  wonder, 
Because,  he  said,  on  t'other  side  the  waters, 

They  kept  their  highest  houses  for  religions, 

And  the  accommodation  of  the  pigeons. 

One  dinner  given,  the  cards  began  to  fall 

Like  snow-flakes,  and  the  tea  began  to  slaughter, 

At  those  portentous  battles  without  ball, 

When  characters  are  hit  'tween  wind  and  water  j 

Then  jam  succeeded  jam,  with  dances  gratis, 

'Till  WALDRON  groaned  in  bitterness  '•jam  satis.' 


GERALDINE.  47 

'Twas  here  he  met  with  GERALDINE  and  ALICE, 
Two  blooming  beauties  who  had  just  come  out, 

To  taste  society's  thrice-poisoned  chalice, 
Their  first  appearance  at  a  city  rout, 

Brimful  of  hope  and  innocence  and  buoyance, 

Both  belles  and  revelling  in  youthful  joyance. 

There's  nothing  like  manosuvring  in  good  season, 
Ye  parents  who  have  daughters  to  dispose  of, 

Especially,  if  you  have  any  reason 

To  think,  in  maidenhood  their  lives  will  doze  off) 

And  there  is  one  in  fifty  thousand  chances, 

That  CASH'S  eldest  son  will  make  advances. 

Suppose  you  have  some  half-a-dozen  daughters, 
From  four  feet  high  to  five  with  some  odd  inches, 

But  cast  your  bread,  you  know,  upon  the  waters, 
And  save  the  shoe  from  telling  where  it  pinches. 

Throw  open  wide  your  doors,  —  burn  spermaceti, 

And  never  more  despair  of  Bell  or  Betty. 

And  so  the  city  Fair  of  matrimony 

Blazes  forever,  and  the  bids  run  high, 
« What's  offered,  ladies,  for  this  matter  o'  money  ?  — 

'A  hundred  thousand  in  the  stocks  !  —  who'll  buy? 

'Going! — who  bids'?— going  !  —  he's  good  as  ROTHS 
CHILD  — 

<  Gone !'  — and  Miss  WILHELMINA  rocks  the  Goth's  child. 
4* 


48  GERALDINE. 

O  honey-moon  of  Love  and  crimson  hangings  \ 
O  BrusseFs  carpeting  and  the  et  cetera ! 

O  bankruptcy  soon  after  !  and  O  hangings 

Of  headache  and  remorse,  and  things  that  fetter  a 

Poor  devil  that  was  married  for  his  Bentons, 

And  having  lost  them,  shares  his  rib's  repentance. 

Within  that  sea  of  silver,  there  was  seen 
A  pearl,  more  lovely  than  the  precious  one, 

Once  sacrificed  by  Egypt's  foolish  queen 
To  vanity,  — a  deed  since  often  done  : 

But  now-a-days,  instead  of  wasting  pearls, 

They  have  a  way  of  melting  down  the  girls. 

The  draught  is  always  vinegar  in  gold  ;  — 

What  though  the  pearl  that  gave  it  worth,  be  lost  — 

What  though  the  priceless  jewel  has  been  sold 
For  nothingness  1  —  the  sacrifice  that  cost 

So  much,  is  registered  among  the  things, 

That  gratify  ambition's  hankerings. 

Why  do  we  stamp  upon  the  tender  mind 

Our  false  conceptions  —  why  cramp  nature  up 

In  the  unnatural  folds  around  her  twined, 
And  sanctify  the  bitter  poison-cup 

That  saps  the  health  of  youth,  —  while  Mammon  reigns, 

And  round  his  horrid  empire  throws  his  chains  ? 


GERALDINE. 

The  causes  are  in  human  passion  seated  — 
While  ignorance  and  prejudice  combine 

To  work  upon  the  brain  by  self-love  heated, 
To  cling  as  if  for  life  at  falsehood's  shrine. 

Strange  !  that  so  many  cycles  should  pass  by 

Without  a  gleam  of  true  philosophy. 

Could  the  cathedral  of  old  Time,  that  buries 
All  natural  changes  in  its  boundless  tomb, 

Open  to  us  its  inmost  cemeteries, 
And  from  its  moral  charnal-house  exhume 

Truth  with  her  thousand-folded  robe  of  error, 

Close  shut  in  her  sarcophagi  of  terror : 

So  might  we  tear  the  Stygian  folds  away, 
And  show  the  buried  life  in  its  true  features, 

Ere  man's  designing  hand  had  made  a  prey 
Of  loveliness  to  mock  his  fellow-creatures, 

How  would  we  burn  with  shame  to  scan  the  pages 

That  hold  the  records  of  but  threescore  ages? 

Then  might  we  see  the  human  mind  upspringing 
In  its  primeval  beauty,  unencumbered 

By  the  unnatural  chains  around  it  clinging, 
Bolted  and  riveted  by  hands  unnumbered, 

Now  free,  and  conscious  of  its  true  relation 

In  this  fair  world,  its  blessed  habitation ; 


49 


50  GERALDIXE. 

So  full  of  happiness — if  man  would  feel 
The  truth  that  his  Eternity  is  now,  — 

That  Time  is  but  a  name  for  the  great  wheel 
Of  natural  changes, — that  to  this  we  bow, 

When  we  lie  down  in  death,  another  name 

For  being,  and  though  modified,  the  same. 

Death  only  moulds  the  body  in  new  forms, 
Mind  always  is,  in  one  eternity ;  — 

And  when  we  learn  to  live  above  the  storms 
Engendered  by  false  notions,  and  apply 

Our  hearts  to  wisdom,  we  shall  find  our  heaven, 

On  this  long  injured  earth,  already  given. 

<'Tis  from  high  life  high  characters  are  drawn,' 
Prerogative  must  form  the  real  rascal ; 

Plebeian  knaves  deserve  our  utmost  scorn, 
Whereas  such  fellows  as  are  lashed  by  Pascal, 

May  rob  the  very  altar  of  a  horn, 

'  Sprinkling  with  rosy  light  the  dewy  lawn.' 

One  '  twice  a  saint  in  lawn,'  de  vinijure, 
Is  thrice  a  saint  in  liquor ;  free  from  trouble, 

He  loves  his  'enemy,'  and  bears  its  fury, 

And  though  his  eye  be  single,  must  see  double. 

Pope  Alexander  always  had  his  followers, 

As  Alexander  Pope  has  had  his  swallowers. 


GERALDINE.  51 

Why  is  it  that  the  world  is  full  of  wo, 

That  misery  in  all  her  Protean  shapes 
Breeds  evil  passions,  want  and  vice  below, 

That  in  ten  thousand,  hardly  one  escapes ; 
What  nourishes  this  mighty  poison-tree  ? 
The  Atheist  answers,  — '  'Tis  necessity :  — 

'  Whatever  is, — must  be, 13 — self-love  supreme, 

'  Is  always  moved  by  motive  power  to  act, 
'And  when  self-love  is  vanquished,  we  must  deem 

'The  power-motive  sufficient  for  the  fact ; 
'Man  has  no  choice  in  acting,  —  he  must  do 
'  Whate'er  the  motive-power  prompts  him  to : 

'  And  yet  it  is  our  duty  to  direct 

'  The  budding  passions  to  a  worthy  end, 
'  That  moral  conduct  may  be  so  correct 

'That  public  good  with  happiness  shall  blend.' 
All  the  necessity  that  here  can  be, 
Is  the  necessity  of  Liberty. 

Thus  even  the  fatalist  admits  the  will 

Free  to  direct  our  actions  to  some  aim ; 
And  thus  we  find  good  mingling  with  dire  ill, 

While  truth  and  error  feed  a  common  flame. 

But  truth  recedes  when  error  spreads  her  sail, 

Alas !  how  long  must  ignorance  prevail  ? 


52  GERALDINE. 

Among  the  million  victims  of  self-love, 

WALDRON  himself  was  found,  —  'midst  classic  lore, 
His  mind  had  freely  wandered,  while  it  strove 

To  anchor  on  some  truth  unknown  before  ; 
But  self-derived  intelligence  destroyed 
The  only  power  he  might  have  well  employed. 

Reason,  he  deemed,  could  measure  every  thing, 
And  reason  told  him  that  there  was  a  law 

Of  mental  action,  which  must  ever  fling 
A  death-bolt  at  all  faith,  and  this  he  saw 

Was  Transference : 14    He  searched  it  and  it  left 

The  reason-dreamer  of  all  truth  bereft. 

He  loved, — where  sings  the  heart-sick  nightingale 
In  Albion's  moonlit  groves,  the  worshipper 

Of  nature  breathed  his  melancholy  tale 
Of  disappointed  passion,  —  but  the  stir 

And  boiling  eddies  of  uncalmed  desire 

Buoyed  up  his  swelling  heart,  nor  quenched  its  fire. 

And  now  he  recked  not,  but  of  pleasure's  stream ; 

Thought  was  to  him  a  tumult,  which  so  jarred 
On  his  racked  brain,  that  like  a  fever-dream, 

'Twas  steeped  in  madness,  and  his  memory  marred 
What  lingering  gleams  of  gladness  sometimes  fell 
From  his  thick-clouded  sky,  on  Hope's  farewell. 


GERALDINE.  53 

He  sought  new  scenes, — he  drained  the  goblet  dry, 
And  whipped  his  rebel  fancy  to  strange  forms 

That  mocked  him  with  angelic  falsity,  — 
But,  ah  !  the  fire  that  with  delirium  warms, 

Curdles  the  blood  at  last  with  shivering  pangs, 

Like  Winter  breathing  through  his  icy  fangs. 

Shame  to  the  selfish  throng  who  gather  gold, 

To  build  up  palaces  and  mirror  walls, 
Where  pride  its  towering  image  may  behold, 

While  candelabri  silver  the  wide  halls  ; 
And  this  that  rival  folly  may  admire, 
And  hate  the  more,  as  it  can  less  aspire. 

Shame  to  such  crampt  idolatry,  more  crampt 
From  the  strong  contrast  with  the  nobler  few, 

The  generous,  whom  public  good  has  stampt 
Their  country's  benefactors,  —  they  that  hew 

Whole  mountains  through  to  sap  their  shining  veins, 

And  by  Golconda's  starlight  tell  their  gains  : 

Who  nourish  the  faint  Arts  and  feed  the  poor, 
And  give  their  palaces,  where  pleasures  ran, 

For  hospitals,  whose  beauty  may  allure 
Hygeian  gales  to  bless  the  dying  man ; 

Who  yield  the  blind  a  sense  that  will  upraise 

A  monument  of  gratitude  and  praise. 


54  GERALDINE. 

Maelstrom  of  fashion  !  whirl  of  heartless  fools ! 

Hell-tainted  atmosphere  of  dizzy  madness ! 
Where  envy  laps  the  filth  of  scandal's  pools, 

And  Mirth  herself  laughs  hollow  out  of  sadness ! 
Where  Virtue's  form  is  aped  by  prudish  Vice, 
And  Moloch  self  claims  every  sacrifice ! 

Within  thy  busy  vortex  WALDRON  moved 
And  drugged  his  sense  of  wo,  —  an  evil  hour 

To  GERALDINE,  —  an  hour  alas  !  that  proved 
To  ALICE,  fraught  with  desolating  power. 

The  one  grew  gentler  than  the  morn  of  Spring, 

The  other  savage  with  sharp  suffering. 

For  ALICE  found  where  WALDRON'S  hopes  were  placed, 
And  saw  that  GERALDINE  returned  his  love  ; 

She  knew  it  were  in  vain  for  her  to  waste 
The  sighs  she  wafted  tearlessly  above ; 

But  jealousy  and  envy  bore  her  up, 

To  mingle  poison  in  her  rival's  cup. 

In  vain  she  summoned  falsehood  to  her  aid ; 

In  vain  she  flattered,  and  in  vain  she  fainted ; 
For  WALDRON,  having  flirted  with  the  maid, 

Grew  tired,  and  wished  sincerely  she  were  sainted  : 
Till  love  at  last  rose  to  a  sort  of  madness, 
And  she  would  seem  in  sorrow,  as  in  gladness. 


G-ERALDINE.  55 

Then  slighted  love  turned  to  a  settled  hate, 

And  malice  whispered  vengeance  in  her  breast, 

And  thus  her  tainted  heart  threw  wide  the  gate, 
Where  wildest  passions  coiled  their  serpent  nest, 

So  lived  the  wretched  girl  —  but  none  knew  why 

Her  cheek  grew  pale  and  sunken  was  her  eye. 

The  winter  passed  away,  and  May,  returning 

With  genial  weather  and  ungenial  taxes, 
Drove  the  great  few,  the  wealthy  and  discerning, 

Who  hail  the  moon  of  money  while  it  waxes, 
And  turn  their  backs,  when  any  signs  of  waning 
Are  indicated  by  assessors  training. 

And  thus  the  merchant,  who  consumes  the  wealth 
Of  half  NANTUCKET,  pouring  o'er  his  ledger, 

When  Spring  returns,  invigorates  his  health, 
Not  as  a  horticulturist  or  hedger, 

But  by  transferring  all  his  personal 

Estate  — wife,  nieces,  babies,  nurse  and  all. 

Once  more  to  her  abode  of  happiness, 
Tired  GERALDINE  returned,  not  all  uncaught 

By  the  great  snare  of  worldly  restlessness, " 
And  dissipation  she  had  lately  sought ; 

For  she  had  learned  to  glow  beneath  the  sun 

That  centres  every  feeling  into  one. 
5 


56 


GERALDINE. 


O  would  that  love  were  ever  still  the  same, 
Unchanged,  unbiased,  constant,  and  sincere, 

Would  that  the  heart  that  owns  a  heavenly  flame, 
Might  never  dim  its  brightness  with  a  tear ! 

But  human  hearts,  alas !  too  often  show 

That  bliss  may  sometimes  banquet  upon  wo. 

There  came  a  cloud  o'er  WALDRON'S  sunny  smile, 
And  grief  revealed  her  impress  on  his  brow ; 

Care  had  built  up  contentment's  funeral-pile, 
And  ashy  paleness  spread  his  features  now ; 

And  when  he  gazed  on  GERALDINE,  his  eyes 

Saddened,  and  left  her  tearful  and  in  sighs. 

She  loved  him,  and  she  gloried  in  her  love, 

For  nature's  imprint  of  a  noble  mind 
Proclaimed  his  intellectual  rank  above 

The  common  herd, — the  loftiest  of  his  kind: 
And  then  his  heart  seemed  pure  and  formed  to  share 
Affections  warm  and  true  as  angels  are. 

Now  GERALDINE  would  watch  the  sun  go  down, 

Day  after  day,  in  pining  solitude ; 
And  yet  he  came  not  from  the  crowded  town, 

As  he  was  wont  to  do  in  careless  mood : 
Yet  still  she  never  deemed  his  thoughts  unkind, 
Poor  guileless  girl,  to  all  but  virtue  blind ! 


GERALDINE.  57 

He  told  her  many  a  tale,  and  turned  away 

Distressfully,  and  forced  his  lips  to  smile ; 
But  GERALDINE  observed  that  anguish  lay 

Couched  in  his  joyless  eyes,  that  spake  the  while, 
Unutterable  language,  half  defined, 
The  speechless,  hopeless,  agony  of  mind. 

And  then  such  wildness  gleamed  beneath  his  frown, 
That  furrowed  print  of  self-consuming  care, 

She  dropped  her  silken  lashes  meekly  down, 
And  veiled  her  features  with  her  cloud-like  hair, 

Entreating  him  to  make  his  sorrow  known, 

That  she  might  share  it  with  him  as  her  own. 

« Why  will  you  nurse  that  adder  in  your  breast, 
<O  WALDRON  !  why  disturb  your  peace  with  care! 

« Within  this  heart  is  room  for  you  to  rest, 
'  Alas !  there  is  no  place  for  others  there ; 

1  For  Heaven  is  robbed  of  love,  that  you,  alone, 

'May  rest  sole  sovereign  on  my  bosom's  throne  !' 

Yet  WALDRON  spake  not — but,  with  hurried  power, 
Rang  out  wild  music  from  the  troubled  flute, 

As  if  to  drown  the  tempest  of  the  hour, 

And  speak  some  language,  though  his  tongue  were  mute. 

We  hear  such  music  rushing  from  the  strings, 

When  rude  blasts  wake  the  wind-harp's  sorrowings. 


58  GERALDINE. 

Thus  was  her  agonizing  heart  oppressed, 

Till  the  dark  storm  passed  over,  —  then  he  gazed 

Upon  her  wistfully,  and  mildly  blessed 
Her  loving  constancy,  and  gently  raised 

Her  dimpling  hand  of  snow,  where  one  warm  kiss 

Thrilled  to  her  heart  with  love's  delicious  bliss. 

Strange  !  how  much  darkness  melts  before  a  ray, 
How  deep  a  gloom  one  beam  of  hope  enlightens, 

When  from  devoted  love  is  rent  away 
The  veil  of  doubt,  and  her  Aurora  brightens 

Like  the  fair  Iris  of  a  sunless  sky, 

When  stars  shine  through  and  clouds  pass  idly  by  ! 

Love  can  atone  for  every  thing,  with  sighs, 
The  only  coin  that  passes  without  weight, 

Their  mint  within  the  bankrupt  bosom  lies, 
Their  impress,  passion  all  disconsolate. 

But  bills  on  Love  thus  bought,  are  surely  no  test, 

For  all  his  suits  anticipate  the  protest. 

All  are  not  what  they  seem,  —  the  humblest  weeds, 
Like  funeral-garments,  hide  the  wreck  of  sin, 

And  many  a  heart  in  silent  sorrow  bleeds, 
Beneath  the  robe  that  falsehood  dresses  in ; 

There  is  a  guise,  so  like  to  Love's  own  dress, 

The  god  himself  would  hardly  deem  it  less. 


GERALDINE. 

'Tis  thus  our  hopes  are  shipwrecked  —  if  the  breast 
Be  not  steel-clad  against  the  worst  of  ills, — 

'Tis  thus  so  many  wander  without  rest, 
While  acid  wo  corrodes  and  tamely  kills ; 

And  many  seek  out  graves,  by  poisoning  slowly, 

The  bitter  fountains  of  their  melancholy. 

« The  morn  is  up  again — the  dewy  mom  !' 
Fresh  from  the  bed  of  night  in  matron  bloom, 

Weeping  to  see  so  many  take  'a  horn,' 
And  walk  out  rosy  from  the  soda-room ; 

For  many,  ere  the  morning's  eye  uncloses, 

Forestall  Aurora's  blushes  on  their  noses. 

*  'Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  watch-dog's  honest  bark,' 
But  not  so  pleasant  when  you're  worn  with  labour, 

To  hear  a  bull-dog  howling  in  the  dark, 

Chained  to  the  gate-post  of  your  honest  neighbour, 

With  forty  friendly  curs  that  follows  up  his 

Notes,  in  a  panharmonicon  of  puppies. 

Nor  is  it  pleasant,  lying  in  your  bed, 

To  hear  a  duet  from  a  brace  of  cats, 
Or  trumpet  solos  round  your  drowsy  head, 

From  lean  musquitos  with  their  sharps  and  flats ; 
Nor  is  it  more  delightful  to  rehearse 
All  night,  like  WILLIAM  PITT,  your  daily  curse. 1<s 
5* 


59 


60  GERALDINE. 

To  those  who  are  accustomed  to  such  blisses, 
The  morn  is  ever  welcome  with  her  smile, 

Lighting  a  beauty  in  the  ugliest  phizes, 
And  giving  pleasure  to  the  heart  awhile ; 

Making  a  man  breathe  freely  and  feel  grateful, 

For  such  an  interregnum  of  the  hateful. 

There  is  a  virtue  in  the  breath  of  flowers 
Borne  on  the  light-winged  dew-drops  to  the  sun, 

That  melts  from  out  these  stubborn  hearts  of  ours, 
The  purest  incense  to  the  Holy  One. 

A  virtue,  more  medicinal  for  sadness, 

Than  morning  drams  to  turn  the  heart  to  gladness. 

There  is  a  time  for  all  things,  says  the  preacher, 
A  time  for  dancing  and  a  time  for  drinking ; 

The  last  is  qualified  by  Dr.  BEECHER, 

And  I  am  more  than  half  his  way  of  thinking : 

A  man  may  love  his  ven'son  and  be  cramming  it, 

But  if  he  loves  his  wine,  must  give  up  dramming  it. 

I  made  an  estimation,  some  time  since, 
Of  all  the  spirits  drunk  in  Gotham  city, 

And  found  the  gills  that  annually  rinse 

Its  thirsty  sons,  enormous ;  more's  the  pity : 

The  total  sum  of  « drinks '  would  float  as  we  know, 

The  British  fleet  that  fought  at  Navarino. 


GERALDINE.  61 

All  men  have  hobbies — women  have  them  too  ; 

For  my  part,  I've  a  dozen  at  the  least, 
And  neighbour  PRY  can  tell  them  all  to  you, 

Who  love  an  anti-intellectual  feast : 
Among  the  rest  that  number  me  with  sinners, 
I'm  very  fond  of  suppers  and  of  dinners. 

1  love  to  sit,  as  I  have  often  sat, 

With  men  of  genius  gathered  around  the  board, 
To  interchange  at  club,  a  social  chat, 

When  wine  and  eloquence  are  freely  poured : 
'Let  sage  and  cynic  prattle  as  they  will, 
These  hours'  alone,  'redeem  life's  years  of  ill.' 

I  like  to  see  the  Mountain-dew  served  up, 

No  matter  how,  for  mixing  in  the  bowls, 
But  grant  a  wooden  ladle  for  my  cup, 

To  dip  the  liquid  di'mond  as  it  rolls  ; 
It  minds  me  so  of  BURNS,  in  all  his  pride, 
'  Behind  the  plough  upon  the  mountain  side.' 

Poor  BURNS  !  thy  soul  was  hardly  meant  for  earth, 
Thy  heart  had  here  too  small  a  dwelling-place  ; 

Nature  that '  smiled  upon '  thy  'humble  birth,' 
Wept,  when  she  saw  the  anguish  of  thy  face, 

That  so  much  genius  should  be  thrown  away 

On  cold  and  senseless  denizens  of  clay. 


S  GERALDINE. 

They  slandered  thee,  fine  spirit !  —  and  the  breath 
Of  heartless  slaves  that  could  not  feel  thy  fire, 

Swept  over  thee  and  tortured  thee  to  death, 
Thou  martyr  to  the  passion-kindling  lyre  ! 

But  thou  shalt  live  through  time's  revolving  years, 

The  poet  of  our  hearts,  our  smiles  and  tears. 

"We  live  —  who  heeds  ]     We  die  —  what  then  1    All  die ; 

And  they  who  live  the  longest,  have  to  bear 
The  weary  burthen  of  humanity, 

With  little  bliss  and  ever-dark'ning  care, 
Stuffing  their  sacks,  as  EPICTETUS  says, 
Fearing  to  die,  yet  groaning  out  their  days. 

We  left  the  lovers  in  that  calm  condition, 
In  which  Dan  Neptune  left  the  troubled  billows, 

What  time  he  bellowed  at  the  coalition 

Of  East  and  West  on  their  ambitious  pillows, 

While  o'er  the  blue,  macadamized  rotundo, 

Flectit  equos,  curruque  volans,  dat  lora  secundo. 

I'll  thank  you,  patient  reader,  to  excuse 

My  rhythm,  or  rather  VIRGIL'S,  since  I  can't 

Make  our  two  horses  travel  as  I  choose ; 
My  Pegasus  is  very  apt  to  pant 

With  such  an  off-companion,  when  I've  spanned  'em ; 

But  were  there  one  more  HOMER,  we'd  go  tandem. 


GERALDINE. 

We  left  the  lovers  in  a  sweet  condition, 
Dreaming  awake,  stark-mad  in  rationality, 

Feeding  on  thoughts  decidedly  elysian, 
With  symptoms  of  a  mutual  partiality, 

And  feeling  very  full  of  generosity, 

For  self-love's  very  pleasant  reciprocity. 

Among  the  worshippers  of  ALICE  Acus 

Was  one  of  that  insufferable  genus 
So  common  in  all  cities,  —  men  who  make  us 

Ashamed  of  any  common  bond  between  us  ; 
The  beastly,  brutal,  brainless,  bullying  blower, 
Infesting  low  hotels  and  hot  hells  lower ; 

Fellows  in  wadded  coats  and  hats  cocked  aft,  — 
Like  the  great  WILD  of  FIELDING,  when  he  ticked 

For  liquor,  and  refused  to  cash  his  draught,  — 
Fellows  that  never  leave  their  game  unpicked ;  — 

'Sportsmen,'  in  short,  who  dine  on  brant  and  widgeon, 

And  then  for  change,  retire  to  '  pluck  a  pigeon.' 

This  modern  Jonathan,  whose  name  was  BORE, 
Was  always  flush  of  impudence  and  dollars, 

And  had  a  way  of  'twigging '  at  her  door, 
A  milliner  who  dealt  in  capes  and  collars, 

With  other  things  too  numerous  to  mention, 

And  difficult  for  common  comprehension. 


64  GERALDINE- 

This  little  milliner  was  French  and  modest, — 
All  milliners  are  French  in  rhymes  and  books, — 

But  this  my  milliner  was  sure  the  oddest 
Of  the  whole  tribe  of  Cupid's  pastry-cooks, 

Though  nothing  strange  in  ogling  with  the  chaps, 

And  showing  misses  how  to  set  their  caps. 

There  are  more  things  behind  a  gew-gaw  purchased, 
Sometimes,  than  people  dream  of ;  but  'tis  scandalous, 

Cries  mistress  A.  and  B.  and  C.  and  her  chaste 
Friends,  that  a  satirist  should  dare  to  handle  us : 

As  if  he  fired  the  Ephesian  dome,  to  drown 

With  melted  icicles,  the  gaping  town ! 

I  sing  of  days  gone  by,  and  mingle  truth 
Too  largely  with  my  fiction  for  romance  ; 

And  if  some  wincing  jades  yet  feel  the  tooth 
Too  keenly,  whirling  in  the  giddy  dance 

Of  drunken  conscience  —  'tis  the  vice,  not  I, 

That  plants  the  barbed  shaft  of  agony. 

Meanwhile,  the  heart  of  ALICE  was  engaged 

In  one  great  scheme  of  mischief :  —  when  the  soul 

Is  once  corrupt,  with  passion  unassuaged, 
What  can  a  female  hurricane  control  ] 

She  made  her  milliner  her  friend,  who  swore 

To  work  her  full  revenge  through  Mr.  BORE. 


GERALDINE.  66 

And  now  I  leave  your  sympathetic  fancies 

To  fill  the  outline  of  this  pencil  sketch, 
Hating  detail — although  it  oft  enhances 

The  interest  of  pictures,  where  some  wretch 
Has  all  his  moral  ulcers  touched,  to  raise 
The  self-complacent  virtuous  of  our  days. 

Let  it  suffice  that  WALDRON  was  drawn  in 
By  the  base  tool  that  had  no  fiendish  peer, 

To  the  unfathomed  depths  of  dismal  sin : 

When  thus  his  demon-lover  stunned  his  ear ; 

«I  have  you  in  my  power — the  hour  you  wed, 

Brings  down  an  avalanche  upon  your  head  !' 

There  was  a  fete-champetre, — the  saloon 
Of  Acus  glittered  with  a  thousand  lights, 

And  music  melted  while  the  crested  moon 

Shone  down  on  one  of  summer's  fairest  nights ; 

The  trees,  like  Cashmere  forests,  were  on  fire  , 

And  woman's  eyes  were  drest  in  love's  attire. 

Away,  away  with  care,  'tis  pleasure's  hour, 
The  wide  lake  answers  to  the  voice  of  glee, 

Groups  there  are  seen  in  clusters  round  a  bower, 
And  here  a  grotto  rings  with  revelry ; 

While  glittering  sets  upon  the  close-cut  green, 

Whirl  like  a  crowd  of  faeries  round  their  queen. 


O  GERALDINE. 

As  on  Eurota's  banks  or  Cynthus'  height, 

Waltzed  the  Oreades — I  was  about 
To  steal  a  simile — but  HOMER'S  sprite, 

And  VIRGIL'S,  and  my  own  without  a  doubt, 
In  such  a  case,  in  our  post  mortem  quarrels 
Hereafter  might  dispute  about  our  laurels. 

But  ALICE,  like  a  silver-girdled  gem, 

Throws  lustre  on  the  band,  and  many  an  eye 

Of  many  a  vassal  of  love's  diadem, 
Bends  on  the  smiling  beauty  listfully, 

Who  throws  away  sweet  looks  and  does  not  spare  them, 

While  other  ladies  take  them  up  and  wear  them. 

Far  from  the  glittering  throng,  in  modest  dress, 
Stands  GERALDINE,  her  mild  eyes  softly  bending 

Upon  the  dazzling  scene  —  yet  dazzled  less 
By  its  bright  glare,  than  by  emotions  tending 

To  make  her  tell-tale  bosom  heave  its  sighs 

In  visible  delight  to  WALDRON'S  eyes. 

Arm  locked  in  arm,  they  turned  them  from  the  crowd, 
And  gazed  upon  each  other,  —  who  has  known 

Such  hour  of  bliss  when  language  was  not  loud, 
And  beauty's  full  affection  was  his  own, 

That  would  exchange  one  moment,  for  the  treasure, 

The  loveless  world  could  lavish  without  measure ! 


GERALDINE.  67 

Now  Acus  had  a  son  just  compos  mentis 

Enough  to  be  the  heir  to  his  estate  ; 
And  WILTON,  therefore  very  often  sent  his 

Fair  daughter  to  see  ALICE  —  and  when  late, 
The  hour  of  visiting,  of  course  the  brother 
Protected  her  for  want  of  some  one  other. 

For  WILTON,  though  affectionate  and  kind, 
Held  the  same  doctrine  that  the  English  hold, 

That  love  is  foolish  in  a  girl  and  blind, 
That  marriage  is  all  moonshine  without  gold  ; 

Besides,  he  guessed  that  WALDRON  was  a  hum, 

And  knew  that  CLIFFORD  would  be  worth  a  plum. 

And  so  a  match  was  struck  between  the  sires, 
In  secret  bargain — CLIFFORD  was  advised, 

And  bent  his  heart's  best  energies  and  fires 
To  win  her  love,  and  he  was  not  despised : 

For  should  an  angel  bow  before  a  maid, 

The  god  of  gold  would  throw  him  in  the  shade. 

Far  from  the  giddy  throng  of  mirth  and  glee, 
Old  WILTON  marked  his  daughter  with  her  lover, 

And  beck'ning  CLIFFORD,  bade  him,  chidingly, 
Observe  his  rival — lest  he  should  discover, 

Too  late,  how  well  he  sped  with  her  in  wooing ; 

And  that  would  be  their  mutual  undoing. 
6 


I  GERALDINE. 

O  thou  invisible  spirit  of  love,  that  art 

Worse  than  thy  sister  spirit  wine,  for  treason ! 

How  dost  thou  so  contrive  to  tear  the  heart, 
And  rob  the  brain  of  its  immortal  reason  ! 

Making  us  dream  in  madness,  to  awake 

With  hell's  hot  thirst  that  death  alone  can  slake. 

The  blood  ran  boiling  into  CLIFFORD'S  cheek, 
And  on  the  instant,  with  revengeful  stride, 

He  hurried  on,  his  hated  foe  to  seek, 

And  found  him  whispering  to  his  promised  bride  ; 

When  with  upbraidings  harsh  —  he  aimed  a  blow, 

Which  but  for  skill  had  laid  his  rival  low. 

A  moment — but  a  moment  —  and  a  spring — 
When  the  rash  youth  was  in  a  tiger's  grasp, 

That,  with  the  lightning  of  an  eagle's  wing, 

Hurled  him  down,  where  was  heard  his  screaming  gasp, 

Deep  in  the  lake  below.     The  wave  closed  o'er 

The  bubbling  blood — and  CLIFFORD  was  no  more. 

The  dance  is  done  —  the  guests  are  all  departed  — 
The  lights  are  quenched,  but  CLIFFORD  is  not  found, — 

WILTON  has  gone  with  GERALDINE,  sick-hearted, 
Death  ringing  in  her  ears  the  funeral  sound ; 

But  none  surmised  abroad,  that  WALDRON'S  arm 

Had  done  the  absent  CLIFFORD  any  harm. 


GERALDINE. 

Now  morn  with  matron  step  and  languid  eye, 
Leads  on  the  bright  Aurora  —  who  with  joy, 

Opens  the  pearl-barred  portals  of  the  sky, 

And  sends  among  the  dews  her  rose-winged  boy ; 

While,  from  behind,  the  chariot-steeds  of  day 

Scatter  the  darkness  and  the  mist  away. 

Now  silence  watches  discord  in  repose, 
And  solitude  loves  cities — who  would  think, 

Ere  yet  the  busy  crowd  renew  their  woes, 
How  placidly  they  sleep  upon  the  brink 

Of  wretchedness !  the  dove  upon  the  sea, 

Has  more  to  hope,  than  men  of  misery. 

And  they  who  slumber  now  —  whose  dreams  are  gay 
And  full  of  happiness,  in  one  brief  hour, 

May  wake  to  all  the  agonies  of  day ; 

To  heart-sick  pain,  and  melancholy's  power, 

And  all  the  complicated  ills  that  press 

The  bosom,  when  'tis  lone  and  comfortless. 

This  is  the  hour  of  thought  —  when  mind  is  free 
As  is  the  unchained  eagle — look  !  whose  flight 

High  o'er  yon  golden-bosomed  clouds,  I  see 
Mocking  the  sun  now  struggling  with  the  night, 

And  reddening  to  behold  the  proud  bird  spread 

Triumphantly  its  pinions  o'er  his  head  ! 


70  GERALDINE. 

Brave  bird  !  thy  dwellings  are  the  blackened  rocks 
That  scowl  upon  the  thunder  —  from  thy  perch, 

Thou  laugh'st  upon  the  lightning  when  it  shocks 
Thy  cloud-masked  eyrie,  as  the  mountain  birch 

And  shivering  pine  bend  like  the  scudding  mast, 

That  trembles  as  an  aspen  in  the  blast. 

Now  gliding  through  the  printless  track  of  day, 
With  not  a  cloud  to  rain  upon  thy  wings, 

Onward  and  onward  thou  dost  hold  thy  way, 
Higher  than  ever  lark  his  matin  sings  ; 

And  none  but  He  who  fashioned  thee  in  might, 

Can  stay  thy  course  or  curb  thee  in  thy  flight. 

Thou  art  the  emblem  of  unshackled  mind, 
Freed  from  the  bondage  of  a  coward  world, 

Whose  thoughts  would  paralyze  their  feeble  kind, 
Were  they  in  all  their  majesty  unfurled  ; 

But  all  alone  it  folds  itself  in  power, 

Or  leaves  the  earth  to  spread  its  wings  an  hour. 

How  eloquent  is  nature  !  from  yon  sky, 

Where  beauty  lays  her  crimson-cinctured  breast, 

A  voiceless  music  melts  upon  the  eye, 

And  lulls  the  throbbings  of  the  heart  to  rest, 

Sweeter  than  woman's  voice,  whose  song  prevails 

To  hush  the  broken-hearted  nightingale's. 


GERALDINE.  71 

But  see !  the  clouds  grow  pate  —  and  beauty's  smile 
Turns  from  her  weeping  lover  to  the  rose  — 

Thou  foolish  flower  to  nurse  a  heart  of  guile  ! 
Long  ere  the  western  sky  with  evening  glows, 

The  blush  will  leave  its  resting-place,  and  blight 

Shall  fold  thee  in  a  sleep  of  endless  night ! 

Waked  by  the  morning  bird,  with  cheerless  feet, 
WILTON'S  pale  child  walked  forth — the  slanting  sun 

Swept  o'er  the  fields,  the  dewy  herb  to  greet, 
Sparkling  to  find  another  day  begun ; 

The  skies  above  were  deeper  in  their  blue, 

Kindling  the  heart  to  gratitude  anew. 

Ah,  little  did  her  guileless  thought  suppose, 
While  nature  looked  so  innocent  and  gay, 

That  WALDRON  lay  in  sleep  without  repose, 
The  apoplectic  image  of  decay, 

His  God-like  faculties,  through  dire  excess, 

A  mass  of  senseless,  soullesss  drunkenness ! 

But  now,  that  soul  was.  like  the  eagle's  flight, 

Lofty  and  full  of  spirit-breathing  fire  ;  — 
'Tis  past — the  revels  of  a  single  night, 

Have  deluged  every  thought  and  high  desire, 
And  paralyzed  the  feelings  that  refined 
The  earthliness  of  passion  in  his  mind. 
6* 


72  GERALDINE. 

And  when  he  wakes  —  Oh  God,  when  will  he  wake  ! 

The  seal  of  hell  is  fastened  on  his  brow  — 
Wave  after  wave  ebbs  off  from  Lethe's  lake, 

And  consciousness  is  clinging  to  him  now  : 
Remorse;—  dread — thirst — with  agony  in  waiting, 
The  horrors  of  the  damned  anticipating. 

And  now  he  makes  a  vow  he'll  drink  no  more, 
No  more  he'll  stake  his  fortune  at  the  bank ;  — 

But  ere  the  last  resolve  is  muttered  o'er, 
The  empty  goblet  shows  that  he  has  drank. 

And  once  again  delirium  has  its  sway, 

While  all  his  thoughts  are  revelling  at  play. 

Drunk  without  pleasure  —  destitute  of  power 
To  shun  the  scourging  furies  that  pursue  him, 

He  counts  the  tedious  moments  of  the  hour, 

And  hugs  the  vulture  that  is  gnawing  through  him. 

While  mean  suspicion  turns  all  eyes  to  see 

His  degradation  and  insanity. 

And  so  he  drinks  the  more  and  damns  himself — 

Then  drinks  again  and  sleeps  and  wakes  and  raves 
1  Staking  his  fortune  madly  for  the  pelf, 

That  buys  for  gamester's  their  untimely  graves ; 
Thus  living,  wallowing  in  foul  despair, 
And  struggling  for  oblivion  everywhere. 


GERALDINE. 

Say,  is  the  picture  heightened  —  ye  whose  days 
Wear  the  dark  shade  that  night  has  cast- before, 

Whose  hypocritic  joys  seem  all  ablaze, 

While  the  pained  heart  lies  cankered  at  the  core,  — 

Are  there  not  colours  of  a  deeper  hue, 

That  cross  your  waking  dreams  to  torture  you  1 

But  GERALDINE'S  warm  heart  was  free  from  doubt, 
Or  if  it  lived  a  moment  —  'twas  in  vain, 

She  blushed  and  plucked  the  rebel  monster  out, 
Till  all  within  was  hope  and  peace  again. 

But  where  is  WALDRON,  while  she  deems  him  true, 

And  prays  his  secret  sorrows  may  be  few  1 

The  cloud  which  hung  upon  his  sallow  cheek, 
Has  passed  away  like  mist — his  eye  is  bright, 

Its  smothered  fire  breaks  out  again  to  speak 
In  eloquence,  and  glad  the  weary  night : 

The  feast  is  spread,  and  merry  hearts  ring  out 

The  swelling  sound  of  revelry  and  rout. 

And  now  the  wine  goes  round,  the  bright  champagne 
Goes  off  in  sparkling  foam — and  joyless  glee 

Laughs  out  tumultuous,  and  the  maddened  brain 
Whirls  round  with  giddiness  and  jollity :  — 

'  A  bumper  lads  all  round,  the  wine  is  bright, 

Life  short  and  merry,  be  the  toast  to-night !' 


74  GERALDINE. 

« A  song — a  song — keep  silence  for  a  song !'  — 
And  every  tongue  was  silent :  — WALDRON  twirled 

His  empty  glass  —  all  care  and  pain  were  gone — 
And  like  a  being  of  another  world, 

So  happy  were  his  looks  —  in  accents  clear, 

He  sang  as  follows  to  the  midnight  ear. 


Go  rob  the  green  vine  of  its  opulent  gems, 

Tear  the  clusters  away,  lest  they  crimson  thy  snow, 
Crush  the  lilies  as  useless,  and  snap  all  their  stems, 

And  blast  all  the  flowerets  that  fragrantly  grow : 
Go  preacher  of  morals  and  victim  of  lust, 

Thou  hypocrite  cloaked  in  the  mantle  of  law, 
Gather  gold,  die  and  rot — already  too  curst, 

Like  the  herd  of  thy  kind,  to  be  damned  any  more  ! 


Give  me  back  the  bright  cup  of  enchantment  again, 

The  garlands  that  pleasure  drenched  richly  in  wine, 
Let  the  cold  heart  of  age  hug  its  icicle  chain, 

Be  the  goblet's  warm  blush  in  youth's  holiday,  mine : 
Let  the  hoarse  raven  scream  when  the  tempest  is  up, 

And  the  dove  fold  her  wings  in  security  blest ; 
I'll  bathe  every  plume  ere  I  fly  from  the  cup, 

To  soar  where  the  sunbeams  eternally  rest 


GEEA^DINE. 


Who  talks  of  forgetf  ulness  ?  —  give  me,  once  more, 

Those  moments  but  sadly  remembered  as  past, 
When  the  surge  broke  in  wildness  on  youth's  rocky  shore, 

And  mirth  spread  her  rainbow  of  joy  to  the  last. 
Give  me  back  the  glad  hearts  intertwined  with  my  own, 

The  flashes  that  thrilled,  and  the  feelings  that  gushed ; 
Too  long  has  the  dull  cloud  of  solitude  thrown 

Its  shade  where  my  heart  lay  in  apathy  hushed. 


If  life  be  a  dream — let  its  slumbers  be  sweet — 

Then  shake  off  the  incubus  care  from  the  soul — 
Though  the  pinions  of  time  are  relentless  and  fleet, 

Their  shadows  may  sparkle  with  drops  from  the  bowl : 
Were  mine  but  one  moment — I'd  hallow  its  flight, 

With  pleasures  that  gladdened  my  young  summer  day, 
Like  the  bird  that  soars  up  to  the  sun's  blazing  light, 

And  pours  his  bright  spirit  in  glory  away ! 

Loud  were  the  shouts  that  sounded  through  the  hall, 
And  deep  the  draughts  of  frenzy  —  till  the  tongue 

Grew  blasphemous  with  wine,  and  reason's  call 
Was  lost  the  noisy  rioters  among : 

Strange !  that  immortal  souls  can  thus  give  way, 

And  yield  the  masterdom  to  servile  clay. 


76 


G  ERALDINE. 


And  who  are  they  that  shame  the  brow  of  night, 
With  impious  mirth  and  riotous  excess, 

Who  urge  the  hours  to  such  impetuous  flight, 
'And  steep  their  senses  in  forgetfulness  V 

The  corsair's  mark  is  on  them  —  human  blood, 

Stains  them  with  guilt,  the  foemen  of  the  flood. 

WALDRON  was  thrown  among  them  first,  by  chance, 
And  riot  made  them  friends — alas  for  him, 

Weak  child  of  passion !  rashly  to  advance 
While  ruin  dared  him  onward,  and  the  dim 

And  shadowy  future  hid  itself,  while  vice 

Called  virtue  to  his  drunken  paradise. 

Their  days  have  plumed  their  wings  upon  the  wave, 
Their  bark  has  drenched  its  thirsty  beak  in  gore, 

Their  countless  victims  sleep  without  a  grave, 
And  widows  weep  for  those  who  weep  no  more ! 

The  outlaws  of  all  nations,  sworn  to  wage 

Promiscuous  war  with  wild  relentless  rage. 

Unknown  to  mercy — hand  in  hand  with  guilt, 
They  bid  the  restless  night  prolong  her  wake ; 

Wine  flows  as  freely  as  the  blood  they  spilt, 
And  conscience  sleeps  a  slumber  none  can  wake. 

Yet  WALDRON  is  among  them — sworn  to  die, 

Or  live,  the  foeman  of  humanity. 


GERALDINE. 

'Twere  vain  to  trace  the  current  of  our  crimes 
To  their  unhappy  spring — one  vicious  hour 

Too  often  grafts  a  bud  for  after-times, 

And  when  we  little  dread  its  baleful  power, 

We  find  a  Upas  breathing  o'er  the  shade, 

Where  brightest  hopes  of  future  bliss  were  laid. 

And  thus,  by  slow  degrees,  the  tempter  gained 
For  hell,  another  vassal — till  remorse 

Maddened  the  wretch's  brain,  with  torture  pained, 
And  desperation  stung  him  to  his  course. 

No  hope  was  left,  and  so  he  used  to  press 

His  fevered  head,  and  court  forgetfulness. 

Let  no  one  judge  the  suicide,  but  God, 
The  father  of  the  Spirt — none  can  feel 

Another's  woes,  nor  feel  the  scorpion  rod 

Of  his  enduring  —  Time  may  sometimes  heal 

The  vulture-eaten  heart,  but  pale  despair 

Too  often  takes  his  deathly  dwelling  there  ! 

The  stars  are  fading  in  the  morning  sky  — 
The  rioters  are  still — and  one  by  one, 

The  flickering  lights  smoke  out ;  in  ruin  lie 
The  shattered  glasses — for  the  revel's  done  — 

And  palsied  Pleasure  reels  to  Lethe's  bed  — 

Where  Conscience  watches  for  the  waking  head. 


77 


78 


GERALDINE. 


The  thirsty  moon,  that  from  the  orange  west 
Shone  faintly  down  on  WALDRON'S  last  embrace, 

Had  drunk  the  stars  up  in  her  glorious  crest, 
Veiling  their  beauty  with  her  brighter  face ; 

And  GERALDINE'S  wan  cheek  was  damp  with  tears, 

That  came  her  heart's  sad  messengers  of  fears. 

The  corpse  of  CLIFFORD  had  at  length  been  found 
Washed  on  the  pebbly  beach — the  doubling  tongue 

Of  gossip  rumour  multiplied  around, 
Surmises,  that  with  foul  suspicion  clung 

To  WALDRON  : — he  was  gone,  and  none  knew  where  — 

Should  GERALDINE  the  horrid  cause  declare  ? 

O  strange,  mysterious  nature  ! — tell  me  why 
Has  human  love  such  sway  within  the  breast, 

That  it  should  live  through  crime,  and  not  descry, 
Even  blood  on  Virtue's  ermine — and  there  rest, 

As  if  it  scorned  as  artificial  lines, 

The  barriers,  society  defines  ? 

One  day  at  noon,  within  a  green  recess, 
By  sheltering  elm-trees  canopied  from  dew, 

While  robins  sang  in  mid-day  idleness, 
And  now  and  then  the  whirring  wood-cock  flew, 

She  lay  in  lapsing  indolence  of  thought, 

The  fast  tears  falling  as  her  fancy  wrought. 


GERALDINE. 

In  one  of  those  strange  dreams  of  nothingness, 
That  nail  the  vision  down  in  senseless  gaze, 

A  death  in  life  as  the  dull  veins  confess, 
While  Lethe  leads  the  memory  in  a  maze, 

A  shape  stood  by  her  like  a  thing  of  air — 

She  started — WALDRON'S  haggard  form  was  there. 

She  gazed  a  moment  on  him,  while  her  brain 
Swam  with  delirious  tumult :  —  'It  is  he, 

My  loved,  my  lost,  my  WALDRON,  come  again 
To  prove  his  faith  and  loving  constancy!' 

He  held  her  to  his  heart — her  cheek  was  cold, 

And  tears  shone  crushed  within  their  silken  fold. 

He  laid  her  gently  down  of  sense  bereft, 
And  sunk  his  picture  on  her  bosom's  snow, 

And  close  beside  these  lines  in  blood  he  left : 
Farewell  forever,  GERALDINE  !  —  I  go 

Another  woman's  victim, — dare  I  tell! 

'Tis  ALICE  !  — curse  us  GERALDINE  !  — farewell ! 

He  kissed  away  the  crystals  from  her  eyes, 

And  wet  them  with  his  tears — one  shadowy  tress 

That  hung  like  twilight  o'er  the  morning  skies, 
He  severed  from  her  brow,  —  one  kiss  to  bless  — 

And  like  a  feathered  arrow,  charged  with  death, 

WALDRON  spurred  onward  with  a  whirlwind's  breath. 
7 


79 


GERALDINE. 

As  from  a  dream  of  horror  and  cold  fear, 
When  the  heart  lingers  to  go  on  again, 

Woke  GERALDINE — as  from  a  funeral  bier, 

Midst  rushing  sounds,  and  strange  commingled  pain  • 

With  dream-like  joy  and  speechless  wonderment — 

Then  memory  dawned,  and  all  the  shadows  went. 

4  Sure  'twas  my  WALDRON  stood  before  me  now, 
Whose  presence  overcame  me  —  list,  what's  here, 

His  miniature] — the  same — that  manly  brow, 
And  eyes  of  love  to  all  my  wishes  dear  — 

O  this  is  all  a  trick  to  win  from  me 

A  foolish  sigh,  but  ah  !  it  shall  not  be ! 

4  Come  forth !  she  cried,  I  know  you  are  not  far, 
You  truant  WALDRON  !  shame  on  such  device ; 

Plow  can  you  thus  torment,  oh  !  why  thus  mar 
The  sweetest  bud  in  all  love's  paradise!' 

She  turned — the  blood-scroll  met  her  fading  eye  :  — 

'Tis  done — the  veil  is  rent  from  misery  ! 

There  is  a  bark  upon  the  broad  blue  sea, 

Her  red  flag  streaming  to  the  conscious  wind  ; 

Look !  how  she  proudly  plunges  on  her  lee, 
And  sends  a  foaming  rush  of  snow  behind  ! 

Her  sides  are  black — and  darkness  is  her  pride, — 

A  white-winged  raven  screaming  o'er  the  tide. 17 


GERALDINE.  81 

Away,  away  she  hurries  o'er  the  wave, 
Dashing  the  brine  up  as  she  heaves  away, 

There's  not  a  heart  with  her  that  would  not  brave 
The  lightning's  bolt,  and  gladden  at  its  play : 

Away,  away  she  struggles  in  her  might, 

The  fresh  wind  straining  all  her  braces  tight. 

Who  does  not  love  the  ocean  1  from  a  boy, 
I  breathed  the  salt-air  on  thy  rocky  coast, 

NEW-ENGLAND!  where  the  Atlantic  breaks  in  joy  — 
And  when  I  seemed  to  others  idle  most, 

Was  garnering  from  nature's  ample  store, 

And  probing  human  passions  to  the  core. 

Who  does  not  love  the  ocean,  that  has  stood 
On  thy  black  borders  wild  NAHANT,  and  seen 

The  north-east  tearing  up  the  giant  flood, 
And  whelming  the  rock-island  of  the  scene, 

And  heard  the  Tritons  sounding  through  the  blast, 

As  if  the  judgement-angel's  trumpet  past  1 

Who  there  has  seen  the  dashing  spray  mast  high, 
And  the  huge  mountain  billows  rolling  on, 

Can  better  judge  of  true  sublimity, 
Than  ocean  midst  when  beacon  lights  are  gone  ? 

But  then  without  the  danger,  half  the  zest 

In  all  such  things,  is  wanting,  'tis  confest. 


Es  GERALDINE. 

Not  that  there's  any  pleasure  in  the  danger, 
More  than  in  being  shot  at  with  ounce  bullets  ; 

Tis  sweet  to  seem  to  be  to  fear  a  stranger, 
The  while  we  wish  that  we  were  feeding  pullets  : 

Most  men  can  fight  a  duel  to  the  letter, 

Yet  when  a  man  survives,  he  feels  the  better. 

I  never  knew  but  one,  that  for  itself 

Loved  fighting  —  or  that  seemed  at  least  to  love  it, 
And  he  would  lay  a  fellow  on  the  shelf, 

J  ust  like  a  horse-cake  when  the  bakers  shove  it 
Into  the  oven  for  a  while  to  bake  :  — 
Which  would  you  rather  be — the  corpse  or  cake  1 

The  sea-fowl  whit'ning  o'er  the  leaden  sky, 

Shriek  a  dire  omen  to  the  sailor's  ear, 
The  shadowing  water  heralds,  sullenly, 

The  spirit  of  the  tempest  to  be  near : 
'  All  hands  aloft,  close  reef —  away  my  boys  !' 
And  ready  hands  the  instant  work  employs. 

The  clouds  roll  on  their  mountain  piles  of  mist ; 

Darkness  comes  down  impatient  of  her  time  : 
Ocean  lifts  up  his  frighted  head,  to  list 

Where  comes  the  storm-king  from  the  Indian  clime, 
Crested  with  arrowy  lightning — sounding  far 
Through  heaven's  profound,  the  thunder  of  his  can 


GERALDINE.  83 

Behind  the  mainmast,  as  the  ship  plunged  fast, 
WALDRON  stood  gazing  at  the  awful  scene, 

He  thought  perchance  that  night  would  be  his  last, 
And  then  he  heaved  a  sigh  for  GERALDINE,  — 

And  then  he  thought  of  his  bad  life,  and  went 

To  take  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  repent 

While  wrapt  in  mingled  dreams — his  vision  caught 

The  dim  prospective  of  a  mountain  form, 
That  seemed  to  bear  upon  them — quick  as  thought 

He  snatched  a  trumpet,  while  he  rent  the  storm, 
*  Helm  hard  a-port!'  and  'hard  a-port!'  replied — 
While  the  shade  rushed  in  fury  by  their  side. 

Then  came  the  fear  of  death  to  stoutest  men, 
While  the  ship  reeled  mast  first  upon  the  wave, 

And  breathing  ceased  beneath  the  briny  den, 
And  even  hope  was  lost  them  in  their  grave. 

But  lo  !  she  rights — and  proudly  on  the  wing, 

Mounts  up  and  stoops,  a  falcon  in  her  spring. 

The  morning  sun  shines  on  the  pirate  bark, 

And  gilds  the  dripping  canvass — the  fresh  wind 

Bears  her  on  steadily  to  actions  dark, 
Bloody  and  dark  and  fearful  to  mankind : 

But  let  us  draw  the  veil,  and  change  the  scene 

To  the  sad  home  of  hapless  GERALDINE. 
7* 


84  GE  RALDINE. 

There  lies  a  sorrowing  beauty,  bathed  in  tears, 
The  hectic  burning  on  her  dimpled  cheek, 

A  parent  watching  her  with  anxious  fears, 
While  tears  are  half  the  language  he  can  speak : 

Her  faithful  heart  still  desolate,  yet  true 

To  him  who  left  her  for  the  pirate  crew. 

She  will  not  speak  the  anguish  of  her  breast, 
She  cannot  chide  the  one  she  loves  to  bless  j 

What  though  her  bosom  own  no  soothing  rest? 
She  does  not  cease  to  pray  for  his  distress  ; 

Her  heart  is  wasting  in  a  slow  decay, 

And  the  disease  of  hope  smiles  o'er  her  prey. 

At  times  she  wanders  when  the  air  is  warm, 

And  gazes  on  the  trysting-place  so  dear, 
When  love  and  innocence,  in  gentle  form, 

United  like  a  dew-drop  and  a  tear, 

When  happy  thoughts  went  heavenward  in  sweet  prayer  ; 
And  all  was  bliss  when  WALDRON'S  smile  was  there. 

And  then  she  turns  her  sickened  heart  away, 
And  bends  her  footsteps  to  her  mother's  grave, 

Thinking  how  soon  she'll  mingle  with  her  clay — 
She  knows  there  is  no  human  arm  to  save. 

And  though  she  smiles  at  death  —  her  thoughts  of  life, 

And  faithless  WALDRON,  cause  a  tearful  strife. 


GERALDINE.  85 

And  then  she  seeks  her  quiet  home  again, 

Or  stands  beside  the  brook,  and  lends  her  ear, 

While  the  blithe  robin  whistles  his  wild  strain ; 
For  there  is  something  to  remembrance  dear 

In  objects  most  familiar,  where  we  trace 

A  withered  feeling,  or  a  once-loved  face. 

Day  after  day  she  pined,  nor  comfort  knew, 
In  the  lone  anguish  of  her  hopeless  grief; 

But  while  her  spirit  sank,  affection  grew, 
And  only  found  in  flooding  wo  relief. 

The  world  may  laugh  at  broken-hearted  love, 

Alas,  how  many  do  its  influence  prove ! 

The  Autumn  leaves  had  decked  the  forest  trees, 
In  robes  of  crimson,  gold,  and  modest  brown, 

And  loitering  winter  whispered  in  the  breeze, 
He  soon  should  lay  his  colder  mantle  down  ; 

For  eve  and  morning  chilled  the  sun's  low  ray, 

That  only  warmed  the  earth  in  highest  day. 

And  WILTON  urged  his  child  to  go  with  him, 

Where  warmer  suns  throw  shadows  from  the  lime, 

For  though  his  hairs  were  gray  and  eyes  were  dim, 
And  age  grew  cheerful  in  the  northern  clime, 

He  could  not  wish  his  only  hope  to  stay 

Where  winter's  arm  might  snatch  the  bud  away. 


83  GERALDINE. 

'  Oh  father,'  cried  the  hapless  child  of  wo, 
'  What  boots  it,  that  so  frail  a  thing  as  I, 

'  A  withered  leaf  that  waits  the  wind  to  blow, 
'Should  seek  a  milder  clime,  a  warmer  sky? 

'Far  better  would  it  be,  when  nought  can  save, 

'  To  sink  with  calmness  in  my  mother's  grave. 

'  My  mother  !  when  this  spirit  shall  have  flown, 
'  Say  will  it  mingle  in  thy  home  with  thee  ?  — 

'  Wilt  thou,  who  gav'st  thy  being  for  my  own, 
'Receive  me  still — and  kindly  smile  on  me?  — 

'  Then  let  me  lie  at  peace  with  thee  in  earth  — 

'  Till  God  shall  call  me  to  a  second  birth. 

« Stay  father  !  dry  those  tears  —  they  give  me  pain : 
'  I  would  not  cross  thy  wishes  at  this  hour  — 

*  But  look  upon  the  dangers  of  the  main  — 
*  Say  do  you  think  your  summer-stricken  flower, 

'  Worth  all  the  cruel  tempests  you  must  bear, 

'Before  we  breathe  the  citron-scented  air?' 

'  Think  not  of  danger,  GERALDINE,  for  me, 

'  I've  crossed  the  mountain  wave  and  love  its  roar  ; 

'  My  GERALDINE  shall  gaze  upon  the  sea, 
'And  love  its  grandeur  as  she  gazes  more ; 

'  There's  health  upon  the  billows,  and  thy  cheek, 

'  Ere  long  their  potent  qualities  shall  speak.' 


GERALDINE.  87 

******* 
******* 
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******* 
******* 

The  evening  sun  had  lit  the  western  clouds 

In  glorious  beauty ;  gorgeous  depths  were  thrown 

Of  living  purple  richly  draped  in  shrouds 
Of  brightest  gold  —  while  far  away  alone 

Lay  a  fair  island  cloud,  like  some  bright  pearl 

That  gems  the  forehead  of  a  blue-eyed  girl. 

With  eyes  of  love  fixed  on  the  brilliant  scene, 
Stood  GERALDINE,  and  longed  to  have  her  home, 

Amidst  that  heavenly  blaze  of  light,  1  ween, 
But  most  in  that  fair  lonely  one  to  roam, 

And  seek  for  those  she  loved  who  had  departed, 

Dying  in  peace,  but  more  the  broken-hearted. 

It  is  an  innocent  delight  to  lend 

Imagination  wing  at  morn  or  eve, 
Or  when  the  shades  of  night  its  glories  send, 

When  we  are  glad  in  heart  or  when  we  grieve ; 
For  thoughts  which  rise  above  us  are  all  pure, 
Unlinked  with  earth  or  aught  that  we  endure. 


GERALDINE. 

It  is  a  privilege  which  all  enjoy, 
But  few  intensely—  for  the  heart  must  be 

Fashioned  by  thoughts  alone,  which  can  destroy 
The  masterdom  of  passion's  tyranny, 

Ere  it  can  feel  the  beauty  of  a  scene 

Which  now  entranced  admiring  GERALDINE. 

Now  WILTON  stood  looking  with  earnest  gaze 
On  the  far  spread  horizon— in  his  hand, 

A  sea-glass  minding  him  of  absent  days, 
When  he  so  eagerly  would  watch  for  land, 

Or  from  the  top,  expectant  look  for  sail, 

And  chide  the  tardy  breeze,  or  wait  the  gale. 

While  musing  thus  — an  object  struck  his  eye, 
Far,  far  away,  behind  the  distant  sea, 

When  from  aloft  he  heard  the  look-out  cry— 
'A  sail  ho  !'  so  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  — 

And  straight  the  helm  was  down,  and  the  fast  prow 

Bore  down  upon  the  stranger's  hidden  bow. 

With  steady  eye,  the  captain  held  the  glass, 
Nor  changed  its  level  once  — till  suddenly 

His  features  shading—  <  We  shall  have  to  pass 
'A  bloody  night  I  fear,  unless  my  eye 

*  Deceives  me  ;  she's  a  pirate,  with  a  row 

'  Of  heavier  teeth  than  hell-hounds  have  below  !' 


GERALDINE. 

Night  spread  her  raven  wings  upon  the  sea, 
While  solid  darkness,  stifling  the  pent  stars, 

Blocked  up  the  firmament— yet  bold  and  free 
The  Vulture  dashed  on  with  her  bending  spars, 

And  imitating  darkness,  sent  before  her 

Phosphoric  brightness  as  a  young  Aurora. 

And  GERALDINE  lay  sleepless  in  her  berth, 
With  throbbing  temples  and  an  aching  breast, 

While  the  waves  dashed  beside  her  in  their  mirth, 
And  the  tired  rudder  groaned  with  its  unrest : 

How  fervently  she  prayed  for  death's  repose, 

Full  many  a  love-lorn  sister-sufferer  knows ! 

4  Alas  ! '  she  thought,  « and  where  is  WALDRON  now  1 
'  O,  could  he  know  how  great  a  sacrifice 

*  His  GERALDINE  has  made  —  how  pale  her  brow, 

'  How  hot  the  tears  that  scald  her  sleepless  eyes, 

-  How  true  her  heart — alas !  so  nearly  broken, 

4  Would  he  repent '  —  the  word  was  thought,  not  spoken. 

4  Perhaps  some  other  heart  has  won  his  love  — 

'  Perhaps  !  —  Oh  God  !  my  WALDRON  is  no  more  — 

4  O  may  we  meet  once  more,  that  I  may  prove, 
'  How  freely  I  forgive  the  wrong  I  bore, 

4  That  he  may  know  a  woman's  heart  once  given, 

•  Still  lives,  though  crushed,  to  love  the  same  in  heaven  !' 


90 


GERALDINE. 


So  passed  the  night  away  —  till  morning  sent 
Her  heralds  on  before  her  —  and  the  clouds 

Marshalled  along  the  eastern  firmament, 
A  heavenly  host  in  thick  embattled  crowds  ; 

While  light  stole  slowly  o'er  the  deep  blue  water, 

As  if  it  dreaded  the  impending  slaughter. 

For  now  was  seen,  close  by  the  Vulture's  stern, 
The  black  flag  flying  at  the  pirate's  mast, 

And  ere  she  hailed  or  once  essayed  to  learn 
Her  name,  or  destination,  vollied  fast 

A  broad -side  from  her  hull — the  fight  began, 

And  fiends  from  hell  fought  hand  to  hand  with  man. 

The  pirate  threw  her  grapnel,  and  the  ropes 
Clinging  together  like  a  death-grasp,  held 

The  ships  inseparable  —  mutual  their  hopes, 
Taintless  their  courage,  never  to  be  quelled  ; 

The  scuppers  streamed  with  blood — both  flags  are  nailed, 

And  heart  meets  heart  that  never  yet  has  quailed. 

Long  did  the  combat  last,  till  only  five 
Were  left  within  the  Vulture ;  they  at  length 

Were  overpowered  by  numbers  yet  alive, 
Faint  with  the  loss  of  blood  and  without  strength. 

But  while  the  pirate  was  of  plunder  thinking, 

He  found  both  vessels  filling  and  fast  sinking. 


GERALDINE, 


91 


'Twas  vain  to  ply  the  pumps,  the  holds  had  drunk, 
While  both  were  fighting,  and  their  power  was  spent ; 

Still  were  they  sinking  —  soon  they  would  be  sunk ; 
Some  moments  passed  in  cursing ;  then  they  went 

To  ship  the  long-boat,  man  it,  and  provide 

Provisions  for  a  week,  and  arms  beside. 

But  first  they  threw  their  prisoners  overboard, 
Who  sunk  without  resistance  —  then  pushed  off, 

Fifteen  inhuman  monsters  who  had  poured 
The  blood  of  thirty  men,  who  yet  could  scoff 

The  arm  of  heaven,  yet  swear  by  that  to  die, 

Rather  than  share  with  man  humanity. 

And  they  are  on  the  ocean  with  the  waves, 
The  play-things  of  the  tempest,  far  away 

From  land,  each  brain  with  desperate  madness  raves — 
But  WALDRON  had  not  hardened  in  a  day, 

For  sighs  at  times  betrayed  his  burthened  heart, 

And  sad  repentance  caused  the  tears  to  start. 

And  they  are  all  alone  upon  the  wave ;  — 
But  where  is  WILTON  with  his  pale-lipped  child]  — 

She  when  the  loud  broadside  the  signal  gave 
Of  desperate  conflict,  ran  in  terror  wild, 

Urging  her  father  with  her,  where  no  harm, 

She  deemed,  could  reach  them  from  the  pirate's  arm. 
8. 


92  GERALDINE. 

There  heard  they  clashing  arms  and  shouts  of  war, 
The  bursting  cannon  and  the  plashing  dead, 

And  shrieks  of  parting  spirits  sent  before 
The  brine  shut  eddying  o'er  the  dying  head  ; 

And  O,  the  horrid  sound  of  human  blood, 

Rushing  in  torrents  to  the  red'ning  flood. 

There  WILTON  clasped  his  daughter  to  his  heart, 
A  bright  dirk  glittering  in  his  trembling  hand, 

And  whisp'ring,  vowed  no  being  should  them  part, 
Or  if  the  VULTURE  owned  the  murderous  band, 

That  dirk  should  save  her  innocence  secure, 

From  all  that  Virtue  might  from  Vice  endure. 

They  heard  the  last  gun  booming  o'er  the  sea, 
They  heard  the  hoarse  shout  of  the  savage  crew, 

And  well  they  feared  how  soon  their  turn  would  be, 
To  dye  the  waters  with  a  deeper  hue : 

At  length  they  heard  the  dipping  of  the  oars, 

And  WILTON  saw  at  once  the  frightful  cause. 

For  now  the  water  rose  above  their  feet 
Upon  the  lower  deck,  and  WILTON  knew 

The  vessel  had  been  scuttled  in  the  heat 
Of  fiendish  malice ;  but  it  was  not  true  : 

The  broadside,  ere  the  vessels  closed,  had  told 

Beneath  the  water-line,  and  filled  the  hold. 


GERALDINE.  93 

Now  what  to  do  he  knew  not — then  he  took 
His  pistols  from  his  berth,  and  went  on  deck, 

And  round  about  he  pressed  a  dizzy  look ; 
And  then  he  saw  the  long-boat  as  a  speck, 

Far  on  the  rocking  main — and  next  he  saw 

A  sight  that  brought  more  anguish  than  before. 

The  Vulture's  long-boat  had  been  stove  in  two, 
Struck  by  a  random  shot — the  quarter  boat 

Was  missing  from  each  side — the  pirate  crew 
Had  stolen  the  jolly.     How  were  they  to  float 

When  the  ship  sunk,  as  soon  she  must,  for  now 

Both  vessels  seemed  to  lower  at  the  bow. 

And  GERALDINE  stood  halfway  up  the  stairs, 

In  the  companion-way,  her  feet  in  water, 
While  WILTON,  sending  up  half  wandering  prayers, 

That  heaven  would  only  save  his  hapless  daughter, 
Went  busily  to  frame  a  little  raft, 
Lashing  some  oars  and  plank  he  found  abaft 

These  one  by  one  he  floated,  and  then  tied, 
And  covered  all  with  a  large  sheet  of  duck, 

Then  lashed  a  keg  of  biscuit  which  he  spied 
Awhile  before — some  wine  he  had  the  luck 

To  find — two  kegs  of  water — cord  for  lashing 

The  stores,  to  save  them  from  the  water's  dashing. 


94  GERALDINE. 

Then  having  taken  his  poor  fainting  daughter, 
He  placed  her  on  the  raft  and  pushed  away, 

Alas !  was  ever  frailer  bark  on  water, 
Or  passengers  more  piteous  than  they  1 

There  on  the  billows  tost,  we  leave  to  fate, 

Sad  WILTON  and  his  child  disconsolate. 

Far  on  the  crested  wave  the  long-boat  tost, 
Red  with  the  blood  of  wounded,  dying  men ;  — 

For  ere  the  earth  revolved,  four  men  were  lost, 
And  one  was  bleeding  fresh,  and  fainting,  when 

The  second  day  saw  the  dim  sun  go  down, 

And  one  despairing  man  in  frenzy  drown. 

Nine  only  now  remained,  and  hunger  came 
With  tenfold  fury  on  them,  and  the  rage 

Of  feverish  excitement  lit  the  flame 

Of  burning  thirst — that  nothing  could  assuage, 

Effectually — an  inward  eating  fire, 

That  kindled  more  while  seeming  to  expire. 

And  soon  their  scanty  fare  was  like  a  dream, 

Where  Slumber  banquets  Famine,  and  she  wakes 

In  tenfold  horror,  as  her  blear  eyes  gleam 
On  the  sad  contrast  which  her  vision  makes ; 

So  felt  the  wretched  men  in  wild  despair  — 

Much  had  they  borne,  but  they  had  more  to  bear. 


GERALDINE.  95 

Sun  after  sun  rose  up  and  sunk  again, 

And  o'er  the  fading  glory  of  the  west, 
The  young  moon  drunk  the  sunset  from  the  main, 

Swelling  with  beauty  as  she  doffed  her  crest, 
And  looking  down  upon  the  flattered  sea, 
Let  fall  her  elfin  veil  in  modesty. 

Alas !  away  upon  the  stagnant  water, 

Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  stars  could  bring  them  joy; 
Their  famished  hearts  were  bent  on  mutual  slaughter, 

And  means  for  this  their  every  thought  employ. 
And  while  sleep  pressed  him  to  her,  one  would  start 
To  feel  a  comrade's  dagger  at  his  heart. 

The  hot  sun  blazed  upon  their  naked  heads, 
And  boiled  the  blood  within  them —  till  some  grew 

Mad,  and  blasphemed  and  tore  their  flesh  in  shreds, 
While  others,  starving,  helped  the  deed  to  do, 

Then  weeping  in  wild  mirth  drank  the  dark  gore, 

And  cried  aloud  to  God,  and  shrieked  for  more. 

Some  prayed  to  heaven — some  cursing  God,  expired, 

While  the  boat  lay  upon  the  blazing  sea, 
With  not  a  breath  of  wind,  that  was  not  fired, 

Hotter  than  any  Siroc  blast  can  be, 
Till  only  one  with  WALDRON  gasped  for  breath, 
His  bleeding  eyes  dim  with  the  glaze  of  death. 
8* 


GERALDINE. 

There  as  his  lone  companion  breathed  his  last, 
Whisp'ring  unconscious  curses  to  the  air, 

Unhappy  WALDRON,  though  declining  fast, 
Sat  like  the  silent  statue  of  despair : 

The  blackened  carcasses  heaped  up  around, 

He  had  not  strength  to  cast  in  the  profound. 

He  seemed  like  death,  disgusted  with  his  work, 

Alone,  alone,  pent  in  by  rottenness ; 
Sure  ne'er  the  charnel  dungeon  of  a  kirk, 

Could  boast  decay  in  such  a  hateful  dress ; 
The  sun  again  went  down — and  moonlight  gave 
A  gentle  breeze  that  rippled  o'er  the  wave. 

The  moon  was  shining  full  upon  the  sea — 

Waked  by  the  stranger  breezes — WALDRON'S  mind 

Had  wandered,  but  with  waking  memory,  he 
Thought  of  his  helpless  victim  left  behind  : 

O  could  he  see  that  face,  he  thought,  and  die, 

Her  prayers  might  save  him  in  eternity ! 

The  moon  was  shining  full  upon  the  wave 

When  WALDRON  saw  a  moving  mass  come  on  : 

O  can  it  be  a  spirit  come  to  save?  — 

His  sight  grew  dim — alas  !  too  quickly  gone  ! 

Again !  O  God,  that  such  a  sight  were  seen, 

The  stiffened  corse  of  murdered  GERALDINE  ! 


GERALDINE. 

Cold  horror  chilled  him  as  the  raft  came  down, 
And  fastened  on  the  boat  —  there  WILTON  lay, 

In  the  chill  arms  of  death,  without  a  frown, 
And  GERALDINE  as  dead  without  decay  ! 

Her  eyes  fixed  glistening  in  the  moon's  full  light, 
And  smiling  as  her  spirit  winged  its  flight. 

And  round  her  neck  the  miniature  was  hung 
Of  him  who  gazed  with  hell's  unmingled  wo ; 

He  saw  her— kissed  her  cheek — and  wildly  flung 
His  arms  around  her  with  a  mad'ning  throw — 

Then  plunged  within  the  cold,  unfathomed  deep, 

While  Sirens  sang  their  victim  to  his  sleep. 


97 


NOTES 


TO 


GERALDINE 


NOTES   TO   GERALDINE. 


NOTE  1.  — Page  22. 
Why  should  the  song  of  nightingales  expire, 

Because  the  rooks  are  screaming  —  raise  their  song 
Jnd  still  the  dissonance  their  silence  brings. 

The  reader  may  recognise  this  idea   in  LESSING'S  beautiful  fable  Der 
Schafer  nnd  die  Nachtigall. 

NOTE  2.  — Page  22. 

Who  would  have  held 
Our  race  had  fathers  so  unparalleled  ? 

Who  had  thought  this  clime  had  held 
A  deity  so  unparalleled  ? 

MILTON'S  Arcades. 

NOTES.  — Page  27. 
Or  on  her  fairy  isle,  to  laugh  and  cry 
With  sweet  Miranda^  and  yet  know  not  why- 
Miranda.  I  am  a  fool, 
To  weep  at  what  I'm  glad  of. 

The  exquisite  beauty  of  the  above  is  only  equalled  by  a  speech  in  Troilus 
and  Cressid,  v/hich  has  never  been  sufficiently  admired. 

Troilus.    Why  was  my  Cressid  then  so  hard  to  win  ? 

Cressid.    Hard  to  seem  won  ;  but  I  was  won,  my  lord, 
With  the  first  glance  that  ever  —  Pardon  me  ;  — 
If  I  confess  much,  you  will  play  the  tyrant. 


102 


NOTES-  TO   GERALDINE, 


','    S.l3>v8.you  oevf ;  but  not  till  now,  so  much 
Br.t  I  Bright  .Tester  it :  in  fnilh  I  Ho ; 
My  thoughts  were  like  unbridled  children,  grown 
Too  headstrong  for  their  mother  :  See,  we  fools  I 
Why  have  I  blabb'd  ?  who  shall  be  true  to  us, 
When  we  are  so  unsecret  to  ourselves  ? 
But,  though  I  lov'd  you  well,  I  woo'd  you  not ; 
And  yet,  good  faith,  I  wish'd  myself  a  man ; 
Or  that  we  women  had  men's  privilege 
Of  speaking  first.    Sweet  bid  me  hold  my  tongue  ; 
For  in  this  rapture,  I  shall  surely  speak 
The  thing  I  shall  repent.     See,  see,  your  silence, 
Cunning  in  dumbness,  from  my  weakness  draws 
My  very  soul  of  counsel :  Stop  my  mouth. 

NOTE  4.  — Page  30. 
One  truth  revealed  to  mortals  long  ago. 

The  following  extract  from  Ripley's  translation  of  COUSIN'S  '  Exposition  of 
Eclecticism,'  will  show  what  progress  has  been  made  by  the  French  philoso 
phers,  in  connexion  with  the  Germans. 

'  Consider  the  importance  of  psychology.  It  was  a  single  psychological 
error  that  seduced  Kant  into  a  path  which  led  to  an  abyss.  Kant  has  made 
an  admirable  analysis  of  human  reason.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  with 
more  clearness  and  precision  the  conditions  and  the  laws  of  its  developement  ; 
but  not  having  analyzed  with  the  same  care,  the  free  and  voluntary  activity, 
this  great  man  did  not  perceive  that  it  is  particularly  to  this  class  of  pheno 
mena  that  personality  is  attached  ;  and  that  reason,  although  connected  with 
personality,  is  essentially  distinct  from  it.  Now,  if  reason  be  personal,  like 
attention  and  will,  it  follows  that  all  the  conceptions  which  it  suggests  are 
personal  also  ;  that  all  the  truths  which  it  reveals  to  us  are  merely  relative 
to  our  mode  of  conceiving ;  and  that  the  objects,  the  things,  the  beings,  the 
substances,  which  claim  to  be  real,  whose  existence  is  made  known  to  us  by 
reason,  as  they  rest  only  on  this  equivocal  testimony,  can  have  only  a  subject 
ive  value  ;  that  is  to  say,  relative  to  the  subject  which  perceives  them,  and 
no  objective  value,  that  is  to  say,  actual  and  independent  of  the  subject.  We 
may  indeed  continue  to  believe  in  the  reality  of  these  objects,  if  our  reason 
be  so  constituted  that  it  cannot  but  believe  in  them,  and  because  it  is  so  con 
stituted  ;  but  in  that  case  there  is  an  abyss  between  believing  and  knowing  ; 
and  all  our  knowledge  then  consists  only  in  recognising  the  internal  and 
psychological  conditions  of  the  necessity  of  believing,  which  in  itself  is  barren 
of  all  real  and  absolute  knowledge.  From  this  proceeds  a  new  and  original 


NOTES    TO    GERALD  IN  E.  103 

skepi  icism  which  not  calling  in  question  the  existence  of  reason  as  a  faculty  dis 
tinct  from  sensibility,  admits  that,  in  its  regular  developement,  reason  in  fact 
suggests  to  us  the  idea  of  the  soul,  of  God,  and  of  the  world,  —  a  skepticism, 
entirely  distinct  from  that  of  the  sensual  school,  which  takes  its  stand  in  psy 
chology  even  with  dogmatism,  and  begins  to  doubt  only  when  ontology  is  con 
cerned  ;  but  as  soon  as  that  is  brought  up,  disputes  the  legitimacy  of  every  pas 
sage  from  psychology  to  ontology,  on  the  principle  that  reason  being  a  faculty 
peculiar  to  the  subject,  can  have  no  validity  beyond  the  limits  of  the  subject, 
and  that  accordingly  all  the  objective  and  ontological  truths  which  it  reveals , 
are  only  the  subject  itself,  transported  away  from  its  sphere  by  a  force  which 
belongs  to  it  and  which  itself  is  subjective. 

'  Would  you  know  the  last  result  of  this  system  ?  Go  from  the  prin 
ciple  to  the  consequence,  from  the  circumspect  master  to  the  daring  pupil ; 
Go  from  Kant  to  Fichte ;  and  you  will  see  reason  already  subjective  in  Kant, 
confounded  by  Fichte  with  personality  itself.  Hence  his  formula,  the  ME 
supposes  itself;  it  supposes  the  world ;  it  supposes  God  ;  it  supposes  itself 
as  the  primitive  and  permanent  cause  with  which  every  thing  commences,  to 
which  every  thing  is  referred  ;  as  at  once  the  circle  and  the  circumference  ; 
it  supposes  the  world  as  a  simple  negation  of  itself;  it  supposes  God  as 
itself  again  taken  absolutely.  The  absolute  ME,  —  this  is  the  last  degree  of 
all  subjectivity,  the  extreme  and  necessary  term  of  the  system  of  Kant,  and, 
at  the  same  time  its  refutation.  Good  sense  cannot  fail  to  do  justice  to  this 
extravagant  consequence  ;  but  it  belongs  to  philosophy  to  destroy  this  conse 
quence  in  its  principle,  and  this  principle  is  the  subjectivity  and  personality 
of  reason.  This  is  the  radical  error,  the  psychological  error,  which  a  rigid 
psychology  should  dissipate.  All  my  efforts  have  been  given,  therefore,  to 
demonstrating  that  personality,  the  me  is  eminently  the  free  and  voluntary 
activity;  that  this  is  the  true  subject,  and  that  reason  is  no  less  distinct  from 
this  subject,  than  sensation  and  organic  impressions.' 

As  COUSIN  is  very  particular  in  ascribing  the  discovery  of  all  philosophical 
facts  to  their  respective  authors,  it  is  remarkable  that  he  is  ignorant  that 
EMANUEI,  SWEDENBORG  occupied  the  same  ground  that  he  does,  relative  to 
the  reason  and  the  will,  long  ago.  The  writings  of  that  illustrious  man  con 
tain  all  that  is  valuable  in  the  French  philosophy  of  the  present  day,  and  in 
finitely  more,  in  which  the  severest  analysis  and  closest  logic  cannot  detect 
a  fault.  Though  my  mind  has  been  principally  occupied  for  fifteen  years 
with  legal,  metaphysical,  and  logical  studies,  I  have  never  found  any  evi 
dence  so  conclusive,  any  reasoning  so  exact,  any  scheme  of  mind,  if  I  may  be 
allowed  the  expression,  so  perfect  in  all  its  parts,  or  a  thousandth  part  so  sub 
lime,  as  that  contained  in'the  works  of  EMANUEL  SWEDENBORG.  I  consider  it 
a  privilege  to  be  permitted  to  bear  my  public  testimony  to  their  value,  to  their 
all-importance ;  for  I  know  that  the  time  must  come,  when  they  will  be  nni-> 


104  NOTES  TO  GERALDINE. 

versally  received,  as  comprising  the  true  philosophy  of  man,  and  the  most 
perfect  ontology.  It  is  wonderful  that  in  an  age  like  this,  prejudice  should 
be  allowed  to  interpose  between  thesublimest  and  most  comprehensive  truths 
ever  made  known  to  man,  and  a  willingness  to  receive  them.  The  specula 
tions  of  MAINE  DE  BIRAN,  and  of  his  followers,  are  eagerly  entertained,  in 
the  vain  hope  of  establishing  a  spiritual  philosophy ;  when  not  only  the 
elements,  but  the  full  form  of  that  philosophy  have  been  in  existence,  almost 
unnoticed,  for  two-thirds  of  a  century. 

The  following  extract  from  the  preface  to  "THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  MIND," 
is  in  point. 

"  The  New  Church  can  discern,  in  almost  every  moral  and  religious  writer 
of  any  acknowledged  merit  at  the  present  day,  some  outbreakings  of  its  own 
power ;  while  its  principles  are  pressing  into  the  natural  sciences,  like  so 
many  gushing  fountains  from  an  inexhaustible  fountain  above  them.  It  is 
painful  to  see  how  little  willingness  there  is  to  acknowledge  the  source  of 
truth  ;  and  how  often  a  man  seems  to  think  that  it  has  answered  its  legiti 
mate  purpose,  when  he  has  bedecked  his  own  person  therewith,  so  as  to 
command  the  admiration  of  the  multitude. 

"  But  the  time  is  approaching,  when  the  claims  of  the  New  Church  on  the 
public  attention  may  not  be  easily  set  aside.  There  is  a  problem  to  solve, 
to  which  those  who  reject  the  claims  of  this  Church,  will  find  it  difficult  to 
furnish  a  solution  ;  and  the  misrepresentations  and  ignorance  which  have 
often  prevailed  in  regard  to  it,  will,  before  many  years,  be  seen  to  be  neither 
consistent  with  good  manners  nor  good  scholarship.  The  writings  of  Swe- 
denborg  are  so  pure  in  their  character  and  influence,  that  the  moral  sense  of 
the  community  will  bear  testimony  that  there  is  no  wilful  imposture ;  and 
they  are  so  perfect  in  their  method  and  logic,  that  the  rationality  of  the  com 
munity  will  bear  testimony  that  there  is  no  insanity.  The  voice  of  these  two 
witnesses  cannot  be  silenced  ;  and  the  day  is>pproaching,  when  the  assertion 
that  these  writings  are  not  of  sufficient  importance  to  command  the  attention 
of  the  public,  will  not  be  hazarded  by  any  one,  who  is  either  a  man  of  intel 
ligence,  or  seeks  to  be  esteemed." 

NOTE  5.  — Page  31. 

The  crucible  of  truth,  some  day,  though  late, 
Will  every  false  alloy  precipitate, 

Bishop  WHATELY,  speaking  of  fallacies,  cites  the  following  illustration 
from  an  anonymous  pamphlet,  "An  Examination  of  Kett's  Logic:"  — It 
[a  fallacy]  consists  of  an  ingenious  mixture  of  truth  and  falsehood,  so  en 
tangled,  — so  intimately  blended,  — that  the  falsehood  is  (in  the  chemical 
phrase)  held  in  solution  :  one  drop  of  sound  logic  is  that  test  which  imme- 


NOTES   TO  GERALDINE.  105 

diately  disunites  them,  makes  the  foreign  substance  visible,  and  precipitates 
it,  to  the  bottom. 

NOTE  6. —  Page  32. 
'  What  meagre  profits  spring  from  pen  and  ink.' 

I  like  the  spirit  of  the  following  paragraph  from  the  Philadelphia  Gazette, 
BO  much,  that  I  transfer  it  to  this  place,  in  the  hope  that  its  truth  may  prevail 
in  eradicating  the  too  well  established  notion  that  men  of  letters  must  ne 
cessarily  starve  to  death  in  garrets,  and  be  most  sentimentally  wretched  of 
course. 

"There  could  not  be,  perhaps,  a  more  inspiring  office  than  to  gather  from 
the  history  of  men  of  mind,  the  evidences  of  their  triumph  in  attaining  to 
that  which  the  world  most  values,  —  independence  and  distinction.  They 
who  prate  of  the  toils  of  genius,  the  doom  of  intellect,  and  all  that  sort  of 
humbug,  are  always  puzzled  for  exemplifying  instances.  A  few  stereotype 
narratives  and  names,  are  all  that  are  left  to  any  of  these  complaining  souls, 
wherewith  to  excite  the  fountains  of  their  sympathy,  and  make  their  heads 
as  waters.  A  learned  and  acute  writer  in  the  October  number  of  Frazer's 
London  Magazine,  has  set  this  point  in  the  true  light,  as  regards  the  current 
literature  of  England.  He  discusses  the  subject  with  an  evidently  close 
knowledge  of  facts.  After  a  calm  and  clear  survey  of  the  whole  ground,  in 
reply  to  an  "Exposition,"  (pamphlet,)  which  takes  the  converse  of  the  ar 
gument,  he  proceeds  to  put  forth  his  own  conclusions.  "  On  no  ground 
then,"  it  is  observed,  "  can  we  agree  with  the  sentimentalist,  that  literary 
talents  earnestly  exerted,  fail  to  benefit  the  possessor  in  a  worldly  point  of 
view."  Cases,  even  where  it  stated  that  aspirants  whose  pretensions  far 
outwent  their  powers,  according  to  the  estimate  of  the  high  Tory  writer, 
(whose  political  antipathies  should  in  this  case  be  considered,)  are  cited  in 
exemplification  of  the  justness  of  his  argument.  Almost  to  a  man,  he  writes, 
did  the  major  part  of  Her  Majesty's  present  ministers  abandon  the  bowers  of 
the  Muses,  to  guide  the  destinies  of  the  British  empire.  "They  started  as 
poets:  MELBOURNE,  (LAMB)  poet;  RUSSELL,  ditto;  SPRING  KICK,  ditto  ; 
PALMERSTON,  ditto  ;  HOBHOUSE,  ditto  ;  MORPETH,  ditto  ;  MULORAVE,  nov 
elist;  HOLLAND,  translator  from  Spanish  ;  LANSDOWNE,  pamphleteer  ;  GLEN- 
KLG,  essayist:  all  these  noble  and  right  honourable  persons  invoked  the 
muses,"  &c.  For  a  man  of  genius,  it  is  added,  a  man  of  high  intellectual 
powers,  and  humanizing  pursuits,  society  is  ever  anxious  to  evince  respect ; 
well  knowing  that  a  man  of  true  genius  is  a  man  of  the  truest  sense,  as  also 
of  the  most  courteous  and  gentlemanlike  feelings.  We  are  well  aware, 
continues  the  same  writer,  that  all  languishing  people  of  whatever  literary 
description,  will  pronounce  us  unfeeling,  and  incapable  of  sympathy  with  all 


106  NOTES   TO  GERALDINE. 

that  is  interesting  in  intellect,  and  so  forth.  We  do  not  wish  to  disturb  the 
dreams  of  any  one  of  the  class  here  spoken  of,  how  insipid  soever  he  or  she 
may  be  ;  what  we  have  wished  and  endeavoured  to  do,  is  this  ;  — to  disabuse 
the  public  mind  of  the  trashy  untruths,  perpetually  palmed  off  upon  it,  viz  : 
that  men  of  high  creative  powers,  men  of  genuine  talents,  duly  applied,  and 
proportionate  mental  culture,  are  doomed  to  disappointments,  reverses, 
"  and  so."  All  this  is  plain,  common  sense,  and  verity,  established  con 
stantly,  in  instances  plentiful  enough  to  constitute  a  rule  instead  of  an  ex 
ception.  The  case  of  BULWER,  "whose  path  to  parliament  lay  through  the 
bookseller's  shop,"  is  one  high  in  evidence.  With  him,  literature  has  proved 
a  most  lucrative  profession  ;  his  residence  in  the  West  End  is  replete  with 
sumptuousness  and  luxury  ;  his  income  a  fortune,  as  well  as  his  possessions. 
In  our  own  country,  in  the  cabinet  of  the  empire,  in  the  halls  of  our  univer 
sities,  in  the  successes  of  business  life,  —  in  a  thousand  ways,  we  may  mark 
the  testimony  which  gainsays  the  cant  about  the  doom  of  talent.  It  is  high 
time  that  the  defiling  and  mendacious  outcry  were  reformed  together. 

NOTE  7.  — Page  34. 
Reason  converses  with  humanity, 
With  nought  beyond. 

No  reference  is  here  made  to  that  ineffable  perception  of  truth  which  be 
longs  to  the  recipient  of  goodness.  By  reason  is  meant  reasoning.  With 
regard  to  quantity  and  number,  we  always  proceed  from  the  known  to  the 
unknown,  with  mathematical  certainty,  only  because  we  use  signs  expressive 
of  homogeneous  ideas,  rigidly  excluding  all  others.  So  when  we  use  words 
significant  of  homogeneous  ideas,  and  carefully  avoid  all  others,  we  may 
reason  with  perfect  precision: — but  when  heterogeneous  ideas  under  a 
common  term,  are  admitted  into  an  argument,  we  may  fancy  ourselves  arriv 
ing  at  transcendental  conclusions,  but  we  are  necessarily  misled  by  fallacies. 

The  thorough  investigation  of  this  branch  of  knowledge  deserves  philo 
sophical  attention.  Its  study  should  be  preliminary  to  that  of  Logic,  which 
orders  the  arrangement  of  terms  and  propositions  according  to  the  invariable 
process  of  reasoning,  and  regards  the  relation  which  words  bear  to  each  oth 
er,  but  which  does  not  define  words  or  terms  individually.  It  is  for  want  of 
such  an  instrument  of  truth,  that  civil  liberty  and  public  wealth  are  so  often 
endangered  by  men,  who  argue  with  irresistible  power,  because  with  logical 
consistency ;  but  as  their  fundamental  propositions  contain  ambiguous 
terms,  which  common  sagacity  does  not  always  detect,  they  rally  around 
them  a  numerous  crowd  of  adherents  who  are  confirmed  and  dazzled  by  the 
very  magnitude  and  brilliancy  of  their  errors.  The  term  '•wealth  '  is  an  in 
stance  of  the  kind  of  ambiguity  referred  to ;  since,  as  it  has  always  been 


NOTES  TO  GERALDINE.  107 

predicated  of  nations  as  well  as  of  individuals,  it  has  been  generally  suppos 
ed  to  be  identical  with  them  ;  an  assumption  without  sufficient  foundation. 

All  ideas  are  relative.  To  be  convinced  of  this,  let  there  be  given  two  af 
fections  of  sense.  Let  A  represent  the  affection  of  heat,  and  B  represent  the 
affection  of  cold.  If  A  had  always  been  submitted  to  the  sense,  and  had 
never  given  place  to  B,  there  could  have  been  no  knowledge  of  either,  since 
the  very  essence  of  A  is  that  it  is  not  B,  but  its  opposite.  But  if  A,  having 
been  submitted  for  awhile,  suddenly  gives  place  to  B,  the  feeling  of  differ 
ence  is  instantly  generated,  and  both  A  and  B  are  simultaneously  known,  the 
former  through  the  medium  of  memory,  the  latter  by  immediate  affection. 
Relation  is  the  mode  of  this  intelligence  or  knowledge. 

This  is  not  hypothetical,  but  is  the  result  of  analysis.  Natural  phenomena 
are  invariable  in  their  modes.  If  then  we  can  ascertain  how  the  mind  of 
any  man  now  acts,  we  shall  know  how  it  has  always  acted  from  the  first 
moment  of  its  action.  We  know  that  logic  is  the  syntax  of  reasoning,  and 
that  it  implies  sameness  of  mental  action,  universally.  It  is  by  comparing 
one  term  with  another,  and  by  being  able  to  affirm  or  d  my  of  one  term  what 
we  know  of  anot'ier,  that  we  arrive  at  conclusions  and  accumulate  ideas. 
If  in  testing  the  truth  of  the  hypothetical  idea  A,  we  compare  its  qualities 
with  those  often  thousand  homogeneous  ideas  already  proved  and  classified 
under  the  common  term  Y,  it  is  plain  that  if  it  were  compared  with  the  first 
idea  acquired  in  the  class,  its  truth  would  have  been  established  as  necessari 
ly  as  now  when  compared  with  Y,  — and  that  the  first  idea  in  the  class  must 
have  been  derived  from  the  relation  which  it  sustained  to  other  ideas.  Now, 
since  it  was  the  first  of  a  class,  it  must  have  been  unlike  those  of  other 
classes,  and  its  individuality  must  have  been  established  from  its  differing 
qualities.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  first  of  any  class  of  ideas ;  and 
consequently  the  first  possible  ideas  must  have  been  the  effect  of  compari 
son,  by  which  two  opposite  ideas  were  generated  at  the  same  time.  Sensa 
tion,  therefore,  could  not  be  the  origin  of  ideas,  since  the  mind's  judgement 
of  difference  in  sensation,  constitutes  the  very  condition  of  its  being. 

It  will  follow  from  what  has  been  said,  that  all  common  words  are  rela 
tive  :  which  will  be  more  clearly  perceived  on  examination.  The  word 
intelligence,  and  the  term  intelligent  author,  are  instances ;  since  there  may 
be  more  or  less  intelligence,  human  intelligence  and  divine  intelligence.  So 
with  the  word  design  ;  there  is  that  which  represents  end,  cause  and  effect 
in  human  actions,  and  in  the  operations  of  what  is  called  nature,  which  are 
superhuman.  Natural  theology  is  based  on  the  assumption  of  homogene- 
ousness  between  human  and  divine  intelligence  and  design,  an  assumption 
not  susceptible  of  proof,  which  when  exposed,  tumbles  the  fabric  to  the 
dust.  PALEY'S  Evidences,  Lord  BROUGHAM'S  Natural  Theology,  and  all 
other  works  of  the  kind,  purely  argumentative,  are  erected  on  the  same  foun- 
9* 


108  NOTES   TO  GERALDINE. 

dation.  The  error  lies  in  predicating  intelligence  of  man's  works,  when  only 
apart  of  intelligence,  viz  ,  human,  is  predicable  of  them.  The  same  may  be 
said  of  design ;  and  it  is  remarkable,  that  even  professed  logicians,  like 
Bishop  WHATELY,  should  have  overlooked  it.  All  we  can  say  of  a  watch 
or  of  a  house,  is,  that  it  indicates  marks  of  human  design  and  human  intelli 
gence  ;  and  the  proposition,  "  whatever  indicates  marks  of  design,  must  have 
had  an  intelligent  author,"  simply  expresses  the  fact  that  all  works  of  man 
indicate  his  design  and  intelligence:  for  if  the  recognition  of  any  divine  work 
is  understood  to  be  included  in  the  proposition,  it  is  supererogatory  to  reason 
any  further  from  it ;  but  if  it  be  understood  to  express  the  exclusive  fact 
above  stated,  it  is  plain  that  in  the  argument,  "  whatever  indicates  marks  of 
design,  must  have  had  an  intelligent  author  ;  —  the  world  indicates  marks  of 
design  ;  therefore,  the  world  must  have  had  an  intelligent  author:"  the  con 
clusion  is  a  non  sequitur,  because  of  an  undistributed  major. 

There  is  a  class  of  words  which  signify  conclusions  of  the  judgement,  ra 
ther  than  ideas,  and  which,  as  might  be  expected,  mislead  the  mind,  in  pro 
portion  to  the  force  of  their  delusion.  These  pretend  to  signify  what  have 
been  denominated  the  mathematical  affections  of  matter :  such  are  exten 
sion,  form,  and  space.  Now,  the  very  essence  of  the  idea  of  an  object  is  its 
differentia  in  relation  to  all  other  things.  In  contemplating  the  differen 
tia,  we  necessarily  define,  and  the  complex  of  the  definition  is  nothing 
more  or  less  than  its  form.  Form,  therefore,  is  inseparable  from  everything 
objective  or  subjective  ;  but  we  can  have  no  idea  of  form,  except  in  the  con 
crete  ;  for  if  we  could,  there  might  be  form  without  substance,  which  is  ab 
surd.  The  same  may  be  said  of  extension,  which  while  in  connexion  with 
substance  is  intelligible,  but  is  inconceivable  as  an  abstraction.  As  for 
space,  if  any  one  supposes  that  he  has  an  idea  of  it,  he  may  disabuse  his 
mind  of  the  error,  by  trying  to  see  more  than  three  sides  of  a  cubic  body  at 
once.  How  then  can  he  have  a  conception  of  the  whole  substance,  or  of  the 
room  it  once  occupied  1  What  we  call  an  idea  of  space,  is  nothing  but  a 
belief  we  have  that  there  is  simultaneous  extension  in  all  directions,  pre 
cisely  as  we  believe  a  mountain  to  be  six  thousand  feet  high,  because  we 
have  measured  it ;  but  who  would  seriously  pretend  that  a  mountain  six 
thousand  feet  high  could  produce  that  individuality  of  affection  called  an 
idea? 

It  is  only  necessary  to  thoroughly  analyze  words,  to  see  that  we  must  rea 
son  in  a  circle  when  we  attempt  to  soar  above  our  sphere.  A  perfect  analy 
sis  of  language  would  enable  us  to  demonstrate  the  complete  subjectivity  of 
reasoning,  and  would  establish  the  truth  of  revelation  by  showing  that  on  no 
other  hypothesis,  could  we  account  for  certain  ideas  which  we  possess.  It 
would  subvert  atheism,  by  forever  disarming  it,  and  by  leaving  it  nothing  on 


NOTES   TO   GERALDINE.  109 


which  to  stand  :  for  when  the  wisdom  of  man  shall  yield  to  infidelity,  thoso 
arguments  which  have  been  so  long  used  to  prove  the  being  of  God,  and  ad 
mit  their  inadequacy  to  that  end  ;  the  arguments  of  the  infidel,  which  aro 
equally  subjective  and  inconclusive,  must  be  yielded  up  likewise.  For  if 
reasoning  cannot  find  out  the  being  of  God,  reasoning  cannot  disprove  it. 


NOTE  8.  —  Page  35. 

Thus  reputation  often  may  confer 
On  men  an  artificial  character. 

The  influence  of  reputation  on  moral  conduct,  ought  not  to  be  overlooked 
in  a  liberal  system  of  education.  The  monks  in  the  early  centuries  having 
been  unjustly  charged  with  misdemeanours,  gradually  sunk  under  the  very 
vices  which  had  been  attributed  to  them. 


NOTE  9.  —  Page  37. 

For  public  spirit,  alias  speculation, 

Does  wonders  for  a  dollar-saving  nation. 

There  is  no  greater  blunder  in  Political  Economy,  than  that  which  suppo 
ses  national  and  individual  wealth  to  be  the  same  thing.  From  this  error 
arises  the  extreme  jealousy  of  our  legislators  in  watching  the  '  people's  money,' 
as  if  every  dollar  that  is  appropriated  to  public  improvement  were  not  the 
best  investment  that  could  be  made  of  it.  Invention  is  the  only  true  basis  of 
national  opulence,  without  which  economy  is  extravagance,  and  accumula 
tion,  poverty. 

NOTE  10.  —  Page  39. 

When  Summer  flushed  the  forest  trees  in  green, 
Or  young  Vertumnus  saw  Pomona  melt. 

VERTUMNUS  represents  a  large  class  of  young  men  who  play  the  hypocrita 
and  make  old  women  of  themselves,  to  win  the  objects  of  their  affection. 

NOTE  11.  —  Page  43. 

ALPHESIBCEUS  might  renounce  his  jumps, 
To  see  saltantes  satyros  in  pumps. 

Saltantes  Satyros  imitabitur  Alphesibneus.  —  Virg.  Buc.  Eel.  5.  73. 


110  NOTES    TO    GERALDINE. 

NOTE  12.— Page  46. 
To  talk  of  liberty,  and  treat  the  fishes 
To  tea,)  served  up  in  chests  instead  of  dishes. 

After  the  Boston  tea-party  had  finished  their  labours,  they  met  together  at 
the  house  of  EDES,  the  printer  and  publisher,  in  the  street  now  called  Frank 
lin  Avenue,  where  they  regaled  themselves  with  punch.  PETER  EDES,  now 
residing  in  Bangor,  Me-,  the  son  of  that  man  and  the  oldest  printer  in  the 
United  States,  informed  me  that  he  was  present,  and  had  the  honour  of 
squeezing  the  lemons  for  the  thirsty  patriots.  The  bowl  is  still  in  his  posses 
sion,  and  ought  to  be  preserved  in  the  old  Cradle  of  Liberty.  But  it  would 
probably  be  as  difficult  to  enshrine  a  punch-bowl  in  Faneuil  Hall,  as  to  gain 
admission  for  Lord  BYRON'S  statue  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

NOTE  13.— Page  51. 
Whatever  is,  must  be. 

I  believe  that  I  have  correctly  stated  the  amount  of  the  argument  in  Systime 
de  la  Nature,  a  work  so  associated  with  the  name  of  MIRABEAUD,  that  it  is 
difficult  to  think  of  him  as  not  the  author.  From  that  work,  SHELLEY  gath 
ered  his  ideas  of  Necessity,  as  many  others  before  and  after  him  have  done* 

'Motive,'  says  Shelley,  'is  to  voluntary  action  in  the  human  mind,  what 
cause  is  to  effect  in  the  material  universe.' 

Now  there  can  be  no  voluntary  action  without  will,  because  voluntary 
action  is  itself  action  from  the  will.  Whatever  a  man  wills  to  do,  he  loves 
to  do,  and  to  say  that  a  man  has  a  motive  for  willing,  is  only  to  say  that  he 
wills  to  will.  The  very  essence  of  will  is  that  it  is  free.  We  may  control 
the  actions  of  a  man,  but  we  cannot  control  his  will,  any  more  than  we  can 
his  love.  We  know  that  love  cannot  be  controlled  ;  but  it  is  not  generally 
known  that  love  is  the  will.  When  we  speak  of '  free  voluntary  activity,'  we 
speak  tau  to  logically.  Voluntas  means  will,  desire,  affection ;  hence  voluntarily, 
freely,  with  desire,  with  affection.  Voluntary  activity  means  free  activity 
of  the  will,  without  the  superadded  adjective.  It  is  absurd  to  talk  about  a 
constrained  will ;  we  might  as  well  suppose  an  involuntary  volition.  Any 
phrase  which  would  convey  the  idea  of  not  a  free  will,  would  contain  a  contra  - 
diction  in  terms. 

A  word  or  two  about  the  term  necessity.  As  every  phenomenon  of  nature 
is,  if  practicable,  referred  to  a  cause,  it  has  been  universally  believed  that 
there  is  an  indefinite  chain  of  phenomena,  each  link  of  which  is  both  cause 
and  effect,  as  it  happens  to  be  related  to  its  antecedent  or  consequent.  Caus 
ality  demands  a  reason  for  everything ;  and  because  this  has  always  been 
the  case,  when  men  could  find  no  cause  for  a  phenomenon,  they  referred  it  to 


NOTES     TO    GERALDINE. 


Ill 


an  unknown  one;  believing  that  causes  never  ceased.  The  ne  eesso  of 
causes  was  appealed  to  as  a  reason,  when  no  known  cause  was  perceived  ; 
and  thus  necessitas,  became  to  be  regarded  as  the  cause  of  all  things.  So 
easy  is  it,  by  means  of  the  law  of  transference,  to  make  a  physical  cause  out 
of  a  logical  conclusion. 

NOTE  14.  —  Page  52. 
Reason,  he  deemed,  could  measure  every  thing ; 

And  reason  told  him  that  there  was  a  law 
Of  mental  action,  which  must  ever  fling 
A  death-bolt  at  all  faith  ;  and  this  he  saw 
Was  Transference. 

If  any  one  ha  s  curiosity  to  look  into  this  subject,  and  wishes  to  see  how  far 
the  force  of  reasoning  and  analysis  may  carry  him,  independently  of  revela 
tion,  I  would  suggest  such  inquiries  as  the  following  : 

Whether  the  First  Philosophy,  considered  in  relation  to  Physics,  was  first 
in  time  ? 

How  far  our  moral  perceptions  have  been  influenced  by  natural  phenom 
ena? 

How  far  our  metaphysical  notions  of  cause  and  effect  are  attributable  to 
the  transference  of  notions  connected  with  logical  language  ? 

NOTE  15.  —  Page  55. 

Not  all  uncaught 

By  the  great  snare  of  worldly  restlessness. 
Cleop.  —  O  infinite  virtue  !  com'stthou  smiling  from 
The  world's  great  snare  uncaught  ? 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

NOTE  16. —  Page  59. 
Nor  is  it  more  delightful  to  rehearse 
All  night,  like  WILLIAM  PITT,  your  daily  curse. 

It  is  said  of  Mr.  PITT,  that  he  was  often  so  harassed  by  his  efforts  in 
Parliament,  that  he  rehearsed  his  speeches  audibly  in  his  sleep. 

NOTE  17.  — Page  80. 
Ji  white-winged  raven  screaming  o'er  the  tide, 

This  can  hardly  be  said  to  be  a  rara  avis  in  terris,  in  the  sense  of  the 
classical  allusion,  if  we  consider  the  modern  discoveries  in  Natural  History, 


112  NOTES    TO   GERALDINE. 

in  New-Holland.  The  black  swan,  says  MALTE-BRUN,  exceeds  the  common 
white  swan.  Its  beak  is  a  rich  scarlet,  with  a  yellow  point.  All  its  plumage 
is  of  a  very  beautiful  black,  except  the  primary  and  secondary  feathers,  which 
are  white.  The  eyes  are  black,  and  the  feet  dark  brown.  It  is  found  on  the 
Hawkesbury  River  and  other  fresh  waters  near  Broken  Bay.  In  its  motions, 
it  has  all  the  gracefulness  of  the  white  species.  This  bird  was  first  discovered 
by  the  Dutch  navigator,  Vlaming,  on  the  banks  of  Swan  River,  in  D'End- 
racht's  Land. 


ATHENIA  OF  DAMASCUS 


DRAMATIC   PERSONS. 

EUPHRON,  Prefect  of  Damascus. 

CALOUS,  Syrian  leader. 

LUCRETIUS,  A  distinguished  citizen. 

DECIUS,  A  Senator. 

KALED,  Saracen  Chief. 

ABDALLAH,  His  Lieutenant. 

DERA,  A  Saracen  officer. 

ATHENIA,  Daughter  O/EUPHRON. 

ADA>  Her  attendant. 

OPHIRA,  A  Syrian  woman. 

Senators,  Syrian  and  Arabian  soldiers,  Messenger,  Grecian 

captive,  People  of  Damascus. 

The  scene  lies  in  the  Ager  Damascene,  and  in  the  City  of 
Damascus,  at  the  close  of  the  siege  A.  D.  634. 


10 


ATHENIA  OF  DAMASCUS. 


0 


ACT  I. 
SCENE  I. 

A  Street  in  DAMASCUS.  —  Time,  sunrise. 
(Enter  LUCRETIUS  and  DECIUS.) 

Dec.    And  is  there  then  no  hope,  Lucretius  1 

Luc.    Yes,  such  as  looks  from  out  the  headsman's  eye, 
When  the  axe  gleams  before  a  malefactor. 

Dec.     What's  to  be  done  ? 

Luc.  Murder  and  sacrilege  ! 

Dec.    And  then  to  starve  ! 

Luc.  What  can  the  Emperor  mean  1 

Surely,  the  fate  of  Bosra  might  have  waked 
The  boa  from  his  slumber,  but  he  lies 


118 


ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS. 


Gorged  with  his  Persian  victories,  as  if 
Sleep  were  the  best  security. 

Dec.  Heaven's  wrath 

Unvials  on  the  earth — the  plagues  are  out 
For  Syria's  overthrow. 

Luc.  It  is  but  just  ; 

We  have  offended  heaven ! 

Dec.  But  know  you  not, 

Heraclius  is  entreated  for  our  aid  1 

Luc.    What  signifies  his  aid  at  such  a  pass, 
When  like  the  scorpion,  we  are  girdled  in, 
And  scorched  to  suicide  ]    To  hear  these  wolves 
Howl  for  their  Paradise  !  as  if  the  wretch 
That  fixed  the  seal  of  hell  upon  their  foreheads, 
Would  cheat  that  hell  of  its  own  sensual  slaves  ! 

Dec.    It  is  a  weary  siege !  —  Damascus  reels 
Even  to  her  downfall.     Should  Heraclius  fail 
To  send  us  speedy  succour,  we  are  lost. 

Luc.    What  say  the  Senate  ]     Have  you  yet  proclaimed 
Last  night's  determination  ] 

Dec.  When  retired, 

We  were  again  convoked  to  meet  at  sunrise, 
Caloiis  is  summoned  to  the  council  room, 
For  some  important  matter. 

Luc.  Heaven  forefend 

Greater  calamity  !  —  the  times  are  bad 
When  soldiers  prompt  the  Senate. 


A   TRAGEDY.  119 

Dec.  Were  you  going 

On  to  the  Senate-House,  Lucretius  1 

Luc.  Yes. 

Dec.    Let  us  then  go  together,  —  'tis  so  dull 
In  such  a  time  to  be  corapanionless  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

The  Senate-House ;  EUPHEON,  DECIUS,  and  other  Senators 
seated.    CALOUS  standing  in  the  background. 

EupJi.    Fathers,  I  have  convoked  you  at  this  hour, 
To  reconsider  last  night's  resolution. 
There  have  been  spies  on  your  deliberations. 
The  morning  watch  challenged  a  cowled  foe, 
Who  shouted  '•Allah  akbar!'  and  escaped 
On  wings  of  lightning.     We  have  tracked  his  path 
Even  from  this  chamber,  where  he  must  have  lain 
Treacherously  hidden :  Howe'er  that  be, 
Our  weakness  is  betrayed.    It  now  remains 
To  scan  our  desperate  purpose.    Senators, 
Let  us  receive  your  views  in  this  emergence  : 
Only  remember,  moments  now  are  hours. 

Dec.    1  see  no  reason,  in  this  foul  mischance, 
Which  scourges  so  our  negligence,  that  we 
Should  change  the  resolution  we  have  made. 
It  is  impossible  for  us  to  hold 

10* 


120  ATHENIA   OF   DAMASCUS. 

The  city  two  days  more  :  —  we  starve  already, 
Though  the  extent  of  her  necessity, 
Damascus  does  riot  know ; — she  little  dreams 
How  certain  is  her  ruin.    I  advise, 
Even  as  I  did  last  night,  to  sue  for  peace, 
And  leave  the  rest  to  heaven. 

Euph.    Let  him  who  controverts  what  Decius  says, 
Speak  to  the  Senate. 

(A  pause.} 

Have  you  all  one  mind  ?  — 
Know  then — 1  summoned  Caloiis  among  you 
In  apprehension  of  this  same  restraint : 
For  in  a  matter  of  such  deep  concern, 
A  soldier's  sphere  may  stir  the  stagnant  blood, 
And  give  it  healthy  action.     Caloiis,  speak, 
The  Senate  asks  your  free,  untrammelled  mind ! 

(CALOUS  comes  forward.} 
Col.    For  this  unusual  honour — had  I  power 
Commensurate  with  gratitude,  Fd  bear, 
Most  willingly,  the  weight  of  all  your  woes. 
But,  conscript  fathers !  all  I  have  is  yours, 
A  life  devoted  to  the  public  weal. 
In  early  days,  midst  Rome's  exalted  pride, 
'Twas  deemed  no  mean  occasion  to  decree 
The  highest  honour  that  a  soldier  loves, 
That  he  did  not  despair  of  the  Republic. 
For  me — 1  hold  no  commerce  with  despair. 


A   TRAGEDY.  121 

Damascus  may  be,  shall  be  free  again. 
Could  1  have  had  a  voice  with  yours,  last  night, 
I  had  protested  strongly  'gainst  your  vote. 
Do  ye  not  know,  that  they  who  sue  for  peace, 
To  such  a  foe  as  ours,  can  hope  no  more  ? 
Had  they  one  Christian  feeling,  like  our  own, 
Some  bond  of  human  brotherhood,  that  extends 
Self-love  unto  a  neighbour,  then  indeed, 
The  dove  might  bear  the  olive-bough  to  them ; 
Not  now ;  —  no,  fathers !  we  must  fight  or  die ! 
And  better  to  do  both,  to  fight  and  die, 
Than  sue  to  them  for  peace. 

No ;  conscript  fathers ! 

They  have  forestalled  your  purpose;  —  it  is  well. 
Your  chances  of  success  are  multiplied ; 
Even  now,  while  they  expect  your  suppliant  suit, 
Astonish  their  base  hopes,  —  and  when  the  bell 
Strikes  as  a  signal,  let  the  ready  gates 
Pour  out  a  flood  of  war  upon  their  camp, 
And  crush  them  with  its  weight.     Meanwhile,  perhaps, 
The  imperial  forces  may  fresh  succour  bring, 
And  seal  our  great  endeavour  to  be  free. 
Fathers  !     I  am  for  liberty  or  death. 

Euph.    We  thank  thee,  Caloiis ;  —  Senators,  you  hear : 
Shall  we  adopt  our  counsellor's  advice ; 
Say ;  shall  the  vote  be  "liberty  or  death?" 

(Several  voices.)     Death  or  Liberty  !  —  Liberty  forever ! 


ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS. 

Euph.    'Tis  done :  —  and  when  the  dial  feels  the  sun 
Steal  o'er  the  hour  of  noon,  —  let  the  great  bell 
Strike  from  the  Martyr's  Tower  for  liberty  ! 
When  next  we  meet,  may  peace  be  with  Damascus. 
(The  Senators  rise  and  disperse  —  EupmiON/oZfows  C ALDUS.) 

Euph.     Soldier !  one  moment,  ere  you  quit  this  room. 

Col.    I  wait  your  pleasure  —  but  be  brief,  I  pray  you. 
We  have  no  leisure  now  for  idleness. 

Euph:    Athenia !  — 

Col.  Is't  then  of  her  you'd  speak  1 

EupJi.    It  may  seem  strange,  in  times  of  such  calamity, 
To  mingle  private  thoughts  with  public  business ;  — - 
But  there  are  secret  springs  within  the  breast, 
Which,  when  disordered,  clog  the  whole  machine. 
You  love  Athenia ! 

Cal  If  ever  man  loved  woman. 

Euph.     Odious,  you  have  a  treasure  in  that  heart, 
Of  golden  fruit,  that  CrcEsus  had  not  bought, 
Though  he  had  hewn  his  Lydian  mountains  down, 
And  turned  Pactolus  from  his  shining  sands, 
To  bribe  the  Hesperian  dragon.    Yet  you  deem 
Your  love  equivalent  to  such  a  gain  ! 

Cal.    If  ever  such  unworthy  thought  were  mine, 
How  could  I  know  the  happiness  of  loving  ] 
A  heart  that  feels  the  immortal  glow  of  love, 
Knows  no  such  selfishness. 

Euph.  Your  mutual  hopes 


A   TRAGEGY. 


Have  long  been  known  to  me  ;  but  if  you  think 
To  wed  my  daughter,  you  must  give  me  proof, 
Like  Curtius,  who  would  leap  within  the  gulf 
His  country  wished  to  close :  —  and  coulds't  thou  stand 
O'er  such  a  verge  as  that  which  Marcus  saw 
Before  assembled  Rome,  and  plunge  within, 
Reckless  of  all  things  but  the  public  good  1  — 

Cal    Ay;  though  it  were  to  grapple  with  the  Sphinx, 
Or  headlong  dive  where  Typhon  breathes  the  fires 
Locked  in  his  rock-ribbed  sepulchre  ;  —  so  long 
As  Honour  points  the  way,  and  Love's  fair  hand 
Beckons  me  onward — name  the  desperate  deed, 
And  for  the  heavenly  guerdon  promised  me, 
The  Fates  shall  bow  before  ennobling  will, 
And  resolution  o'erleap  destiny  ! 

Euph.    And  could  you  bear  the  hisses  of  the  people, 
The  execrations  of  distempered  men  — 
For  making  some  unheard-of  sacrifice  ;  — 
Say,  could  you  immolate  a  noble  name, 
But  for  a  day — forego  your  reputation — 
Assume  the  villain  — wear  a  traitor's  mask  — 
Bring  down  a  hundred  thousand  human  curses, 
Within  an  hour,  on  your  devoted  head, 
And  all  to  wed  Athenia  1 

CaL  Senator ! 

Well  might  I  say  I'd  grapple  with  the  Sphinx, 
For  never  did  Cimmerian  riddle  wear 


124  ATHENIA  OF  DAMASCUS. 

So  dark  an  aspect  —  prithee,  sir,  explain ! 

Euph.     What  if  the  popular  breath  should  damn  the  sun, 
In  his  meridian  glory  —  do'st  thou  think, 
His  beams  would  fall  less  brightly? 

Cal  And  what  then  ? 

Euph.  Reputation  is  but  idle  wind 

Blown  against  character,  which  when  unstained, 
With  an  immortal  vigour  may  upbear 
Against  the  slanderous  world  its  angel  face, 
And  fix  its  gaze  on  Heaven  ! 

Cal.  Let  me  drink 

The  Clarian  waters  that  invest  thy  soul, 
Though  I  imbibe  my  death  !  unlock  the  spring  — 
And  if  the  revelation  blanch  my  cheek, 
The  Sibyl  whisper  must  propound  some  deed, 
Too  horrible  for  human  utterance. 

[EUPHRON  whispers  him.] 

Cal    What  do  you  mean,  my  lord? 

Euph.  Patience !  — 

[  Whispers  again.] 
Now  dar'st  thou  do  this  thing  1  — 

Cal.    1  am  a  very  coward  in  all  deeds 
Where  honour  dares  not  mingle.  —  No  !  1  dare  not ! 

Euph.    Yet  the  archangel  when  he  folds  his  wings, 
Veils,  not  destroys,  his  glory ;  think  of  this. 

Cal.    My  lord,  1  cannot  think  of  degradation, 
And  link  the  foul  imagination,  too, 


A    TRAGEDY.  125 

With  the  immaculate  image  of  my  love  — 
Nature  revolts  at  such  dire  contraries. 
Methinks  you  task  my  virtue  in  strange  wise ; 
Or  standing  in  such  delicate  relation 
To  my  respect  and  sufferance  —  you  presume 
More  than  becomes  you  to  inflict  on  one 
Disarmed  by  his  affections,  and  your  own ! 

Euph.    Were  my  intent,  dishonourable,  Caloiis ! 
Thy  serpent-twisted  armour  would  strike  dead 
The  base  assailant  of  thy  character  — 
But  I  would  build  up  honour  for  thy  name, 
And  make  thee  heir  to  higher,  richer  treasure, 
Than  the  sun- worshipper  of  Persia  lost, 
If  thou  wouldst  only  reach  thy  hand  to  take  it ! 
Cal.    I  have  the  senate's  mandate  on  my  mind  — 

The  legions  wait  my  presence  — 

[Shouts  of  "Liberty  forever!"  without.] 

The  senate's  last  decree  has  found  a  tongue 
In  every  heart  —  and,  "  Liberty  forever  /" 

Rings  through  the  iron  phalanx,  and  inflames 

With  heavenly  ardour ;  —  welcome,  oh,  thrice  welcome 

Death-daring  Hope  !  —  Shout,  shout  again,  brave  soldiers ; 

Your  eagles  strain  their  golden  wings  once  more 

For  victory  —  and  the  red  vultures  cleanse 

Their  clotted  beaks  to  banquet  on  the  foe  ! 
Euph.    Onward  to  battle  then,  for  liberty  ! 
Cal    For  liberty!  [Exeunt. 


126 


ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS 


SCENE  111. 

An  apartment  in  EUPHRON'S  house.     ATHENIA  and  ADA. 

Aih.    Poor  sufferers !  would  that  my  means  were  greater  ! 

Ada.    They  were  so  grateful,  lady,  that  their  tears 
Mixed  with  their  supplications  for  thy  blessing. 
1  could  not  help  weeping  to  see  them  weep. 

Afh.    Oh,  my  poor  bleeding  country  !  for  thy  sins, 
How  terrible  this  judgement  of  high  Heaven !  — 
They  were  all  fed,  and  well  provided,  Ada ! 

Ada.    Yes ;  but  the  little  infant  that  you  saw, 
Died  at  its  mother's  breast  —  and  would  you  think  it1? 
The  mother  laughed  out  loud  —  weeping  and  laughing  — 
And  then  she  shuddered  so,  in  anguish,  lady, 
1  ran  and  brought  the  pretty  flowing  mantle 
You  gave  me  on  my  birth-day,  which  she  took, 
And,  sighing,  folded  round  her  lifeless  child :  — 
It  was  a  trifling  present — nay,  not  so  — 
Yet,  pardon  me  —  look,  here  she  comes  again ! 
{Enter  OPHIRA.) 

Afh.    Merciful  Heaven !  what  a  sight  is  this  ! 

Oph.    Hush !  —  sh !  you  will  wake  my  child  —  so  !  softly  ! 

softly ! 

We  shall  have  food  enough  when  the  moon  changes  — 
They  say  the  grave  is  not  so  cold,  neither !  — 


A    TRAGEDY.  127 

Ath.    What  wouldst  thou  have,  thou  poor  unfortunate  ! 

Oph.    Only  a  little  food  while  my  child  dies  !  — 
For  mercy  !  charity !  —  hush !  — sh !  —  I  am  coming — 
\Vait  awhile — wait  awhile — we'll  bury  this  first  — 
And  then  —  keep  off  thy  hand,  base  Saracen  ! 
He  is  my  husband  —  do  not  kill  him!  — monster! 
Right  through  his  heart !  murder !  help  !  Christians,  help ! 

[Rushes  out. 

Ath,    Spirit  of  holiness  !  dove  of  the  hallowed  ark, 
That  bears  the  sinking  soul  above  the  tide, 
Come  with  the  olive-blooming  harbinger 
Of  meek-eyed  Peace,  and  midst  the  spirit's  strife, 

Bend  once  again  thy  rainbow  o'er  the  storm  !  — 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

An  opening  in  a  range  of  mountains  (the  Libanus.')  The  river 
BARRADY  breaking  out  from  the  opening  —  DAMASCUS  in  the 
distance  with  gardens.  A  high  precipitous  rock  surmounted 
by  a  castle  overhanging  the  river.  The  scene  lies  below  in  the 
Ager  Damascenus.  The  tent  of  KALED  discovered.  Time, 
sunrise :  the  sun  gilding  the  spires  of  the  city.  KALED 
and  DERA  outside  the  tent. 

Dera.    Thus  far  has  Allah  blest  us — praised  be  Allah  ! 
Scarce  had  1  left  the  infidel's  abode, 
Fit  paradise  for  dew-eyed  luxury, 
11 


128  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

When  the  bright  morning  spread  her  Tyrrian  wings, 
And  waked  the  slumbering  echoes  :  —  I  have  passed 
A  night  of  danger  —  thrice  along  the  walls 
The  lynx-eyed  sentinel  his  challenge  sent, 
And  twice  was  it  eluded  —  one  alone 
Suspected  my  great  purpose  —  but  i  hurled 
Defiance  in  his  teeth,  and  here  I  am. 

Kaled.     Well  Dera,  with  thy  business !  — 
Dera.  Sleep  had  fled 

The  fearful  people  —  o'er  their  pallid  brows 
The  night-torch  spread  a  hue  of  ghastliness  — 
Some  bowed  themselves  in  tears,  and  kissed  the  cross, 
While  I  stood  by  and  smiled  :  —  'twas  murmured  there, 
The  trunkless  head  of  one  they  call  divine, 
Parted  its  bloodless  lips  and  whispered  "wo  !"  — 
At  length  I  gained  the  council  of  their  chiefs, 
\Vho  wearied  out  the  watches  of  the  night, 
And  heard  their  resolution  —  pinched  to  death 
By  famine — rent  by  civil  broils,  and  foes 
Who  mask  themselves  in  dark  hypocrisy  — 
They  have  resolved  to  sue  to  thee  for  peace. 

Kaled.    Then  will  they  sue  the  hungry  lion's  mercy  - 
For  by  the  shrine  of  Mecca,  ere  the  sun 
Shall  gild  again  these  lofty  mountain  tops, 
I'll  feast  upon  the  bloodless  heart  of  Syria, 
And  crown  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  world, 
In  mockery  of  herself :  —how  proudly  now, 


A    TRAGEDY. 


129 


She  lifts  her  conscious  beauty  to  the  skies, 
Careless  of  ruin  !  —  Thou  hast  ever  been 
The  spot  where  Nature  dimpled  into  smiles  ; 
Fit  residence  for  dark-eyed  messengers, 
Who  bear  the  mandates  of  eternal  God. 
Thou  art  too  fair  for  Christian  dogs  to  inhabit ; 
Thou  whom  Mohammed  loved,  and  loving  feared, 
Amidst  thy  sweet  seductions  —  while  his  work 
On  earth  remained  —  exposed  to  earth's  corruption. 
The  altars  which  disgrace  thee  shall  be  razed, 
With  all  their  countless,  false  divinities. 
And  thou  shalt  forge  the  thunder-bolts  of  wo 
For  thine  own  ruin  —  and  this  day  shall  build 
A  monument  to  Abubekir's  name, 
Which  shall  not  crumble  — be  we  only  just, 
And  faithful  to  our  cause. 

Dera.  When  Kaled  speaks, 

The  sword  of  Allah  leaps  to  Victory  ! 

Kaled.     Nay,  scourge  of  Christians  !  keep  thy  honied 

words 

To  recreate  a  mistress  —  we  have  need 
Of  action,  or  our  scimitars  will  rust  — 
1  charge  thee,  Dera,  for  this  last  assault ; 
See  every  man  be  ready;  when  the  san 
Shall  call  to  morning  prayer  —  the  Prophet's  hour 
Of  certain  victory  —  one  sudden  burst 
Shall  overwhelm  the  city  ;  —  though  1  would, 


1.30 


ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 


If  possible,  preserve  so  fair  a  place, 

That  Abubekir  might  repose  his  age 

Among  its  pleasant  gardens  ;  —  but  'tis  written  ! 

Dem.     My  bosom  burns  to  pay  the  Christian  dogs 
The  debt  I  owe  their  coward  treachery. 

Kaled.    Hope  is  a  willing  slave  —  despair  is  free  — 
So  shall  Damascus  gird  her  iron  on, 
In  desperate  resistance  —  but  her  doom 
Is  registered  in  those  black  leaves  of  fate, 
Which  Allah  reads  in  Heaven  — while  men  tremble. 

Enter  ABDALLAH. 

Worthy  Abdallah !  may  the  Prophet's  blessing, 
And  Abebukir's  honours  rest  upon  thee  ! 
What  think'st  thou,  soldier,  shall  we  carry  home 
A  glittering  tribute  and  a  few  poor  rags, 

To  grace  our  triumph  in  the  Caliph's  eyes 

Shall  we,  who  sacked  Bassora,  and  upraised 
The  Sanjeak-sheriff  on  the  Christian  walls 
Of  many  a  leaguered  town,  now  leave  Damascus  ? 
No  !  by  Medina,  I  will  storm  her  citadel  — 
Exterminate  her  people,  and  wring  out 

The  last  red  drop  that  gives  a  Christian  life  : 

The  treacherous  infidel !  was't  not  enough 

To  parley  with  foul  thoughts,  when  victory  hung 

Triumphantly  upon  the  Moslem  side, 

And  tempt  my  life  by  stratagem  ?  —  Enough  — 


A    TRAG  E  D  Y. 

Speak,  my  lieutenant,  I  would  take  thy  counsel ; 
[Aside.]     So  it  accord  with  my  fixed  resolution. 

Abd.     Sword  of  God  !  — 

The  tongue  of  wisdom  lies  behind  her  heart ;  — 
This  world  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  — 
A  dream  of  troubled  sleep  :  were  I  to  seek 
So  much  thy  friendship,  as  the  way  of  right, 
1  would  not  think  so  loudly  as  1  do ;  — 
But  when  1  cease  to  do  the  high  behest 
Of  Allah —  when  my  heavenly  leader  shows 
The  way  of  duty,  and  I  cease  to  follow, 
Then  may  the  angel  of  relentless  death 
Bsar  me  to  judgement.  —  Kaled,  I  protest 
Against  thy  dark  design  ;  —  our  swords  were  sent 
In  the  high  cause  of  Allah,  to  persuade, 
Or  force,  if  necessary,  every  one 
Who  bows  to  Christ,  to  leave  his  impious  faith, 
And  follow  all  the  Koran's  sacred  laws  ;  — 
Why  should  we  scatter  death  so  needlessly  1  — 

Kaled.    You  talk  like  one  that  has  not  been  abused ; 
Half  Christian,  by  my  faith !  and  would  you  turn 
Like  one  contemned,  to  beg  for  more  contempt  ? 
This  is  to  be  a  Christian ;  —  fie,  Abdallah  ! 
I  thought  you  cherished  more  of  manliness  ! 

Abd.     When  Abubekir  gave  the  sword  to  you, 
And  took  from  me  the  standard,  which  you  bear, 
Though  1  acknowledged  your  superior  power» 
11* 


131 


ATHENIA   OF   DAM  ASCIIS, 

And  followed  you  as  leader,  do  not  think 
J  acted  so  from  love  of  degradation  ! 
Had  1  been  so  ambitious  —  like  the  orb 
Which  wears  our  silver  crescent  in  the  sky, 

I  could  have  thrown  a  shadow  o'er  your  glory ; 

1  thought  you  worthy,  but  I  find  you  not ;  — 

Nor  brave,  as  once  I  held  you  ;  though  you  frown 

And  chafe,  and  rage  —  I  still  will  stand  unmoved, 

And  tax  you  with  this  weakness.     Do  not  think 

To  scare  me  with  your  wrath  ;  —  what  though  you  smote 

Moseilam  with  the  spear  that  Hamza  slew, 

And  sealed  Mohammed's  favour  1  —  It  was  I 
Who  stood  the  Prophet's  witness  here  below,  — 

'Twas  I  unfurled  the  sacred  banner  first, 

And  fought  its  holy  battles  — ever  ready, 

As  now,  to  die,  ere  it  shall  be  polluted  ! 
Kaled.    It  is  not  meet  that  one  the  Prophet  loved, 

Should  rouse  my  anger  —  else,  would  I 

Dem.  Forbear ! 

Why  should  you  wage,  heroes  of  Ismael ! 

A  war  of  words  in  conflict  with  each  other  ? 

Abdallah  was  Mohammed's  earthly  witness, 

His  friend,  companion,  and  the  light  which  chose 

His  faithfulness,  instructed  him  to  act 

According  to  his  will ;  —  I  hate  the  Christians  — 

But  then  the  love  I  bear  his  memory, 

Is  stronger  than  my  hatred  of  his  foes. 


A   TRAGEDY.  133 

Kaled.    I  am  the  last  to  love  dissension,  Dera ! 

Abd.    Then  listen  !  if  we  urge  extremities, 
We  blind  ourselves  to  every  fair  advantage  — 
Damascus  must  be  ours ;  —  but  if  we  hold 
A  deaf  ear  to  her  cries,  and  slaughter  wildly, 
What  city  henceforth  will  submit,  while  lives 
A  single  arm  to  keep  a  city  free  ?  — 
Humanity  is  policy  in  war  — 
And  cruelty's  a  prodigal  that  heaps 
A  suicidal  burthen  on  himself. 

(The  bell  of  Damascus  strikes.) 
(Enter  a  Saracen  Soldier.) 

Sold.    The  Christians  are  upon  the  move,  my  lord  ! 
The  sentinel  from  yonder  precipice, 
Bade  me  declare  a  sally. 

Kaled.  How  is  this  ? 

[To  Dera, 
They've  fooled  thee,  soldier,  hurry  to  the  rescue  ! 

[Exit  Dera. 

Abdallah  !  head  the  Armenian  archers,  —  bear 
The  standard  in  thine  own  particular  hand ; 
I  trust  it  to  thy  charge  ;  —  forget  the  past ! 
Onward  and  fight  for  Paradise  ! 

Abd.  For  Paradise ! 

[Exeunt. 

(End  of  Act  /.) 


134  ATHENIAOFDAMASCUS 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

A  pleasure-ground  in  DAMASCUS.    ATHENIA  alone. 

Afh.    1  will  not  pluck  thee  from  thy  parent  tree, 
Sweet  rose  of  beauty  !  while  the  raindrops  hang 
O'er  thy  clear  blush  their  modest  ornaments  — 
Another  hour  shall  glory  in  thy  smile, 
And  when  the  daylight  dies,  the  queen  of  heaven 
Shall  fold  thee  in  a  silver  veil  of  love, 
Forgetting  her  Endymion.    Foolish  heart ! 
As  if  I  loved !  —  Yet  truly,  as  1  live, 
I  fear  I  love  the  very  thought  of  love  ! 
Oh,  childish  joy  — indefinite  delight !  — 
That  I  should  dream  so  sweetly — and  at  morn 
Find  my  eyes  wet  with  tears  !  — 

Enter  C  ALDUS. 

Cal  [Embracing  her.]  Athenia ! 

Afh.  Thank  thee,  Heaven  ! 

Cto^  What  kind,  indulgent  power 

Has  smiled  on  Caloiis,  that  so  much  bliss 


A    TRAGEDY, 


135 


At  once  should  dissipate  his  darkest  gloom, 
And  make  a  noon  of  midnight ! 

Ath.  Thank  thee,  Heaven  ! 

Cat    Say  then,  thou  lovest  me  still,  Athenia ! 

Ath.    Love  thee !  indeed  I  know  not  if  I  love.  — 
When  thou  art  nigh,  I  fain  would  be  alone  — 
And  when  away,  I'm  sad  and  desolate  :  — 
Beshrew  this  maiden  fickleness  of  thought ! 
I  would  not  give  the  treasure  of  my  love, 
For  all  the  wealth  that  earth  or  ocean  covers :  — 
And  thou  wilt  save  our  altars,  Caloiis  ! 
The  holy  cross,  and  every  dear  remain 
Of  sainted  martyr,  still  inviolate  ! 
So  shall  we  wander  in  our  honrs  of  joy, 
On  the  green  margin  of  life's  sunny  stream, 
With  more  delight  than  ever  —  shall  we  not? 

Col.    What  grief  can  throw  a  shadow  o'er  our  way, 
When  love  is  cloudless  1  —  let  thy  heart  be  still, 
Young  Halcyon,  on  its  marble  resting-place ! 
There  is  no  fear,  Athenia,  that  the  foe 
Can  harm  Damascus  ;  —  though  his  arm  is  strong, 
The  arm  above  is  stronger  —  even  now, 
The  victory  is  ours. 

Ath.  Alas!  Damascus. 

Cal.     Chase  these  vain  fears  !  —  and  dost  thou,  maiden, 

think, 
The  soil  where  Adam  trod  in  majesty  — 


136  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

The  land  Jehovah  guarded,  when  the  fiend 
Drove  Saul  to  persecute  —  and  where  the  light, 
And  breath  of  God  softened  his  heart  of  steel, 
Turning  his  thoughts  to  pity  and  to  love  ; 
Think'st  thou,  this  consecrated  place  can  yield, 
While  He  is  with  us,  as  He  e'er  has  been  ?  — 

Ath.     His  ways  are  dark,  and  deeply  intricate  — 
When  Heaven  was  kindest,  innocence  was  lost, 
And  Paradise  gave  birth  to  Misery. 

Cal.     Let  not  such  thoughts  plant  lilies  on  thy  cheek, 
My  own  Athenia !  all  will  yet  be  well  — 
Come,  let  me  bind  a  chaplet  of  fresh  flowers 
To  deck  thy  temples  —  I  will  steal  an  hour 
From  anxious  Care,  and  sacrifice  to  Love, 
The  hopes  and  wishes  I  have  nursed  for  thee.  — 
Not  always  thus  shall  be  our  wayward  lot, 
To  wander  here  and  steal  from  Love's  rich  store, 
These  precious  moments  of  sweet  ecstacy  ! 
Not  always  thus,  my  girl !  — when  dove-eyed  peace 
Spreads  her  white  wings  again,  the  sacred  tie 
Shall  bind  our  wedded  hearts  —  till  then,  my  love  ! 
Thy  smile  shall  cheer  me  on  in  peril's  hour, 
With  its  dear  influence  ! 

Ath.  Oh,  Caloiis, 

Thy  words  have  touched  a  string  of  memory's  lyre, 
And  waked  the  key-note  of  the  saddest  dirge 
That  Fancy  ever  played  to  Melancholy  !  — 


A     TRAGEDY 


137 


1  dreamed  last  night  —  how  could  I  have  forgotten  1 
I  dreamed  we  stood  before  St.  Michael's  altar, 
Breathing  eternal  vows  —  when  —  oh  !  how  strange  ! 
Suddenly,  without  cause,  you  tore  away 
The  holy  cross  down  from  above  the  altar, 
And  trampled  it  beneath  your  sandaled  feet — 
Oh,  such  a  dream  !  — and  then  methought  that  I, 
With  Delphic  'fury  maddened  in  my  dream, 
And  prophesying  ruin,  snatched  from  air, 
Hot  thunder-fire  and  hurled  thee  to  the  dust, 
Shrieking  from  very  agony  of  hatred  ! 
Oh,  horror,  horror,  horror  ! 

Cal.    Stay  these  fantastic  thoughts,  strange  excellence  ! 
I  love  thee  more,  Athenia,  for  that  mind, 
So  capable  of  wild  imaginings  !  — 

Aih.  But  why 

Can  truant  Reason  thus  desert  her  throne, 
And  suffer  Truth  and  Falsehood,  hand  in  hand, 
To  conjure  such  conceptions  in  the  brain  1 

Cal    The  mind  is  ever  wakeful  —  when  the  spirits 
Grow  weary,  nature  calls  for  their  repose  ; 
And  thus  our  animal  being  slumbers  nightly  ; 
Yet  the  mind  moves  in  its  eternal  course, 
Thought  following  thought,  by  that  association, 
Which  governed  them  by  day— but  like  a  king 
Throned  with  his  vassals  slumbering  at  his  side, 
Its  counsellors  are  gone  —  Perception's  messengers 


138  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

Lie  mute  before  their  monarch  —  whose  mistake 
Leads  on  to  such  a  labyrinth  of  errors, 
That  bright  Aurora,  with  her  threads  of  light, 
Must  be  its  Ariadne,  or  'tis  lost. 

Ath.    Oh,  strange,  mysterious  Nature !  strange  Philosophy, 
That  reads  its  true  relations  ;  —  Caloiis  ! 
It  is  because  of  their  reflex  conditions, 
Matter  and  mind  thus  imaging  each  other, 
That  1  am  led  away  by  fantasy. 
Pray  Heaven  you  fall  not  in  this  cruel  strife  ! 

Cal.    1  prithee  do  not  play  Cassandra's  part, 
And  prophesy  of  dying ;  —  I  have  here 
A  fairer  Paradise  than  Moslems  have, 
With  such  an  Houri  —  Come,  away  with  this  ;  — 
How  can  this  dull  cloud  pass  before  the  sun, 
And  turn  our  spring  to  winter  1  —  There,  I  knew, 
The  dimpling  bud  of  my  Damascus  rose 
Was  only  folding  its  sweet  leaves  awhile, 
To  garner  up  more  beauty  !  — 

Ath.  Flatterer ! 

How  well  you  coin  Love's  silver  currency  — 
Beshrew  me  that  I  so  should  like  its  chime  !  — 
My  bosom  is  a  hive — whose  winged  thoughts 
Steal  honey  from  the  Hybla  of  your  tongue, 
That  when  its  absence  brings  their  wintry  hour, 
They  may  retire  to  their  sweet  home  awhile, 
And  dream  again  of  summer  !     Now,  I  know, 


A    TRAGEDY.  139 

That  angels  hover  round  us  when  we  love  — 
For  I  have  heard  strange  music  in  my  walks, 
Linking  the  loved  ideal  of  my  heart 
With  all  things  beautiful  —  till  eye  and  ear 
Drunk  in  delicious  pleasure  :  —  How  is  this  1 

Cal    If  angels  ever  leave  their  pure  abodes, 
They  could  not  live  more  spotless  than  with  thee  ! 

Ath.    Hush  !  they  will  hear  thee,  and  offended  Heaven 
Blast  us  for  sacrilegious  vanity. 
Caloiis  !   I  fear  I  love  thee  more  than  Heaven  ! 

Cal.    Love  such  as  thine  may  strike  its  roots  below, 
But  'tis  a  plant  that  blossoms  in  the  skies. 
Look  !  how  the  dew  of  heaven  upon  this  flower 
Drinks  up  the  sunbeams !  do'st  thou  think  that  they 
Were  sent  so  many  million  miles  to  shine, 
Except  to  bless  the  petals  which  they  warm  1 
Oh,  would  I  were  a  pencil  of  that  light, 
To  live  an  hour  with  my  Damascus  rose  ! 

Ath.    Oh,  would  1  were  a  rose,  and  you  my  sun — 
That  every  tear  which  lonely  night  distils, 
Might  dance  with  gladness,  when  you  brought  the  morn  ! 

[Caloiis  embraces  her. 
Oh,  how  the  heavenly  alchemy  of  Love, 
Turns  every  thought  to  golden  blessedness ! 

Ada,  [without.]     What,  ho  !  my  lady  !  — 

Ath.    It  is  my  Baya's  voice  —  the  innocent  bird, 
That  bears  our  dearest  messages  of  love  ! 
12 


140  ATHENIA    OF   DAMASCUS. 

Enter  ADA. 

Well,  minion,  thou  hast  found  me — art  afraid? 
What  hast  thou  there  1  An  arrow,  by  my  life  ! 
Has  Cupid  sped  a  shaft  at  thee  so  soon  1 

Cal     Where  didst  thou  find  that  instrument  of  death  ? 

Ada.    I  hope,  my  lord,  it  is  no  evil  sign. 
E'en  now  while  standing  by  the  marble  spring, 
Listening  to  hear  two  sweet  birds  sing  together, 
That  arrow  rustling  through  the  fruit-tree  leaves, 
Pierced  one  of  those  poor  birds,  which  fell  down  moaning, 
Even  to  my  very  feet.    I  plucked  it  out, 
And  in  exceeding  sorrow  sought  my  mistress ; 
Still  do  I  hear  that  dear  bird's  dying  music, 
And  its  poor  broken-hearted  mate  lamenting. 

[During  ADA'S  speech,  CALOUS  takes  the  arrow  from  her, 
and  breaks  it ;  a  paper  falls  out,  which  he  takes  up,  and 
reads.] 

Cal.    «  To  Euphron,  Prefect  of  Damascus ! "  — 
Athenia,  1  must  leave  thee  !     Stay  here,  Ada  ! 
Where  is  the  Prefect  gone,  Athenia  1 

Ath.    What  can  this  mean  1    Ah  me,  some  new  distress  ! 

Cal    In  sooth,  'tis  nothing,  love  !  —  where  is  your  father? 
[abstractedly.]  Yes  !  it  shall  be  done  ! 

Ath.  What  shall  be  done  ? 

Cal.    What  Heaven  ordains — Leave  me,  my  love,  awhile  ! 

Ath,    Leave  thee  awhile !  alas,  alas,  Damascus ! 


A    TRAGEDY.  141 

I  hear  the  death-bird  screaming  on  the  wind, 

Wo  to  Damascus  !  —  Leave  thee  awhile  !  —  Farewell ! 

[Going. 

Cal    Stay,  sweet  enchantress  !  by  the  light  of  love, 
And  the  enshrined  divinity  that  burns 
Within  that  guileless  bosom,  where  I  worship, 
Dim  not  those  angel  eyes  with  mortal  tears ; 
I  did  not  mean  to  give  thee  pain,  Athenia  ! 

Ath.     [Looking  earnestly  at  him.] 
Caloiis,  thy  God  will  leave  thee  to  that  worship, 
And  wed  thee  to  despair  !         [  Turning  away  sorrowfully. 
Alas,  Damascus !  [Exit. 

Cal.     [Musing.]     If  I  give  up  this  city,  they  will  think 
Caloiis  the  worst  of  traitors — though  the  end 
Must  show  the  deep  fidelity  I  bear  her. 
Another  day  would  find  Damascus  fallen  : 
Why  then  delay?  — when  sudden  death  impends, 
The  direst  medicine  is  not  amiss. 
But,  should  I  fail !  just  Heaven,  what  wo  were  mine  ! 
If  I  succeed  — thy  smiles,  my  rescued  country  ! 
Thy  brighter  smiles,  Athenia,  will  repay 
This  conflict  between  duty,  love,  and  fear. 
It  shall  be  done  ! — dry  up  your  tears,  Damascus  ! 
And  spare  your  curses  while  I  work  your  weal. 
Let  me  peruse  this  strange  despatch  again  — 

[  While  he  is  reading,  EUPHRON  enters  —  seeing  him,  CA- 
LOUS  starts.] 


142  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

Now  by  the  Baptist's  blood,  the  thing  itself, 
The  very  body  that  the  shadow  threw  !  — 

[To  EUPHRON.] 
Know'st  thou  this  signet  1 
Euph.  it  is  Werdan's ! 

Cal    See  what  a  herald  he  has  sent  to  you  — 
Euph.     [Reading.]     "  If  you  cannot  hold  the  city,  contrive 
to  gain  time  in  some  way.     The  army  will  be  at  your  gates  to 
morrow." 

The  very  words  ! 

Cal.  Had  you  another  like  it? 

Euph.    Even  to  the  very  folding  in  a  reed 
Shot  as  an  arrow  o'er  the  garden  wall, 
I  found  it  ere  I  saw  you  in  the  morning, 
And  this  is  but  its  fellow  to  secure 
Communication.    May  it  be  the  last !  — 
Had  1  your  youth  — 

Cal.  Speak  not  to  me  of  youth  — 

1  have  resolved  upon  the  sacrifice  ;  — 
Yet  how  shall  it  be  done  ]  — That  is  the  question. 

Euph.    Openly,  like  a  traitor  —  'tis  a  part 
Requiring  the  free  action  of  a  mind 
Bent  on  the  perpetration  of  a  deed, 
Against  all  dangers  panoplied. 

Cal  Alas! 

Who  would  believe  that  Caloiis  has  revolted  ] 
They  could  not  find  a  motive  for  the  crime, 


A   TRAGEDY.  143 

To  satisfy  astonishment.    In  truth,  sir, 
My  better  nature  shrinks.  — 

Euph,  Why  should  it  so  7 

Cal    The  Christian  precept,  it  would  seem,  were  only 
A  matter  of  convenience  !     I  have  learned 
To  deem  it  universal  in  its  meaning. 
And  1  confess,  my  conscience  does  not  like 
To  view  this  strange  transaction. — 

Euph.  As  you  please  ! 

Your  country,  nay,  Athenia,  has  no  claim 
Upon  your  pity.    When  Damascus  falls,  — 
As  fall  fahe  must,  should  the  impending  blow 
Strike  as  it  threatens,  —  how  can  you  behold 
The  flames  —  the  sacrilege  —  the  foul  pollution, 
You  might  have  once  prevented  !  —  look  you  there  — 
They  drag  my  daughter  from  me — she  is  dead  !  — ?. 
No  !  'tis  the  seal  the  wanton  Arab  sets 
On  Christian  innocence ! 

Cal.  Oh,  spare  me,  spare  me  ! 

I  prithee  do  not  let  thy  fancy  stain 
Her  spotless  ermine  by  another  thought :  — 
Name  but  a  pretext  that  will  varnish  o'er 
The  absurdity  of  such  a  foul  revolt  — 
Make  it  but  actable  —  and  1  will  do  it. 
Teach  me  to  make  the  treachery  probable  ! 

Euph.    I  have  it,  but  it  tasks  thy  virtue  further  — 
Thou  shalt  be  superseded  in  command, 
12* 


144  ATHENIA   OF   DAMASCUS. 

And  then  revenge  were  natural ! 

Cal.  Excellent ! 

Euph.    I'll  pull  the  strings  that  move  those  dancing  jacks, 
The  hangers-on  of  Government  for  office ; 
And  they  will  wag  their  venal  tongues  at  thee, 
And  lash  the  rabble  public  into  foam, 
E'en  while  you  save  them.    Tis  an  easy  thing 
To  open  the  light  flood-gates  that  hedge  up 
Public  opinion,  and  let  scandal  work 
On  reputation.    Are  you  satisfied  1 

Cal    Methinks  Lucullus  asks  me  to  a  feast, 
To  banquet  all  the  senses — I  am  lost 
In  mere  imagination  of  such  bounty. 
Great  God  !  was  ever  mortal  tasked  as  I  am  ? 
Oh,  I  could  wade  through  blood  for  honour's  sake, 
But  to  seek  glory  in  so  rank  a  path, 
Shames  me  in  doing.    May  we  trust  Athenia  ? 

Euph.    No,  not  a  living  soul.    But  I  must  act 
The  hypocrite  and  liar  for  her  sake, 
And  curse  thee  to  my  daughter  !  — 

Cal  Horrible, 

That  love  should  mask  in  livery  of  hell ! 

Euph.    To-morrow,  ere  the  impatient  sun  goes  down, 
Think  what  a  bright  reverse  !  Our  city  free  ; 
The  Imperial  Army  at  our  very  gates ; 
The  shouts,  the  triumph  of  a  grateful  people ; 
While  their  deliverer  bears  his  bride  in  joy  1 


A   TRAGEDY.  145 

But  if  the  foe  once  gain  the  city  walls, 
Though  Werdan  should  invest  them  with  his  rank, 
The  country  is  alive  with  maddened  Arabs, 
And  midst  their  still  accumulating  power, 
How  could  we  hope  for  mercy  ? 

Col.  Say  no  more, 

It  shall  be  done,  be  thou  but  prompt  to  aid  me. 

Euph.    Meet  me  an  hour  hence  in  the  library. 
1  have  a  friar's  dress — which  oft  at  night, 
Serves  me  in  my  excursions  through  the  city. 
'Twill  help  this  great  occasion.    Fare  thee  well ! 

[Exit 

Cal    If  I  should  fail !  oh  God,  if  I  should  fail ! 
What  crawling  wretch  would  hug  his  grim  despair 
Like  Caloiis  !  hence  spectre,  to  thy  grave  ! 
Why  dost  thou  come  to  make  a  coward  of  me  ] 

[Exit, 

SCENE  II. 
The  Saracen  camp.  —  KALED,  ABDALLAH,  DERA. 

Kaled.    Foiled  yet  again !  the  standard  taken  too  ! 
Abd.    'Tis  safe,  my  lord  ! 
Kaled.    But  then  it  was  polluted. 
Abd.    Not  by  a  Christian's  touch  !  'tis  true  awhile 
They  bore  it  by  the  staff —  myself  struck  down 


146  ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS. 

By  their  infernal  engines  ;  —  not  a  thread 
Of  its  green  folds  was  yet  contaminated. 
Dera  was  present,  and  can  vouch  for  this. 

Dera.    By  Mecca,  it  is  true  !  'Twas  the  best  fight 
Since  Karbur  swam  with  blood  at  Akrabar  ! 

(Enter  a  Saracen  soldier  in  haste.) 

Kaled.    How  now !  speak,  fellow !  — tell  me  what's  the 
matter. 

Sol  God  is  great !  May  the  word  of  God  be  ever  victo 
rious  !  The  garrison  at  Bozra  is  in  danger  —  A  caravan  from 
Antioch  has  been  taken,  bound  for  Damascus.  We  have 
learned  from  one  who  has  renounced  the  idolatry  of  Christ, 
that  Heraclius  the  Emperor,  has  sent  an  army  to  relieve  Da 
mascus.  May  the  arm  of  Allah  strengthen  you  ! 

Kaled.  Presumptuous  fool ! 

Would  Kaled  had  an  hundred  thousand  arms 
To  clear  the  world  of  those  unwashed  idolaters  ! 
What  shall  we  do,  brave  soldiers  1  Is  it  best 
To  raise  this  siege  awhile  —  or  wilt  thou  go 

[To  Dera. 

With  half  the  Caliph's  forces,  and  thyself 
Dash  at  these  wood-adorers  —  scourge  of  Christians  ? 
Ere  thou  return,  Damascus  will  have  poured 
Her  treasures  to  pile  up  the  monument 
Which  thou  shalt  lay  with  the  imperial  gold. 

Dera.    Let  me  away  at  once,  before  the  foe 


A    TRAGEDY.  147 

Can  hurry  on  their  legions  to  these  gates. 

If  we  march  on  to-night,  the  palm's  long  shade 

Will  point  the  east  to  conquered  Syria. 

Kaled.    Begone  in  Allah's  name  ;  for  Paradise  ! 
On  the  event  of  this  great  action,  Dera  ! 
Much  will  depend.    Be  cautious,  curb  thy  valour ; 
Strike  once,  and  mightily.    Remember,  Paradise  ! 
Thou  who  hast  saved  the  standard,  art  deserving 
To  fight  beneath  its  shadow ;  bear  it  with  thee  ! 
Begone  and  conquer ! 

Dera.  \  have  already  won 

The  favour  of  the  black-eyed  girls  of  heaven  ! 

Kaled.    They  look  with  eager  longing  for  thee,  Dera ; 
There's  rest  for  thee  in  heaven.     On,  action,  action ! 

(Enter  two  Saracens,  leading  in  a  Grecian  captive.') 
What  have  we  here?  stay,  Dera,  here's  more  news. 
What  art  thou,  dog? 

Capt.  A  prisoner,  at  thy  mercy ! 

Kaled.    A  Christian  and  a  dog.  Whence  art  thou  ?  tell  me, 
Or  I  will  throw  thy  carcass  to  the  hounds 
That  howl  for  thy  whole  kindred ! 

Capt.  Spare  my  life, 

And  1  will  serve  thee  faithfully  and  well. 
God  is  the  only  God,  and  Mohammed 
His  Prophet. 

Kaled.  Thou  hast  won  thy  life,  already ; 


ATHENIA    OF  DAMASCUS. 

Speak  freely  to  me.    How  canst  thou  serve  Allah  ? 
Thou  shalt  be  harnessed  in  pure  gold,  speak  freely. 

Capt.    The  Grecian  army — 

Kaled.    What  of  it  ?    where  1   how  many  ?   haste,  I  pray 
thee ! 

Capt.    Ten  leagues  away,  and  hurrying  by  forced  marches. 
It  will  be  here  to-morrow. 

Kaled.  Know'st  its  rout  ? 

Capt.    Yes,  and  will  guide  thee  to  it,  unerringly. 

Kaled.     Enough  !  we'll  go  together,  scourge  of  Christians  ! 
Abdallah,  thou  shalt  govern  in  my  absence ! 
Keep  the  defensive —  and  retreat,  if  haply 
These  rabid  dogs  unkennel  from  the  city. 
Go,  Dera,  rouse  the  lions  from  their  lair, 
Bring  out  ten  thousand  archers,  and  as  many 
High  mettled  chargers,  manned  and  scimitared ; 
Provision  for  one  day —  Heraclius 
Has  doubtlessly  provided  with  large  bounty 
For  all  our  possible  wants  —  Go,  and  when  ready, 
Bring  up  my  guard,  and  we  will  on  to  Bozra. 

[Exit  Dera. 

Bear  off  your  prisoner  —  give  him  nourishment, 
And  have  him  ready  for  the  march  forthwith. 

[Exeunt  soldiers  with  captive. 
Abdallah,  I  must  charge  thee  in  my  absence, 
To  have  a  keen  observance  of  Damascus. 
These  infidels  are  wily  as  the  brood 


A   TRAGEGT.  149 

That  weep  upon  the  borders  of  the  Nile. 
Be  sparing  of  thy  pity,  should  they  send 
Their  olive-bearing  messengers  to  thee. 
Our  policy  is  conquest,  and  our  aim 
To  propagate  Mohammed's  revelation. 
Be  all  things  to  all  men  but  seemingly, 
And  keep  thy  own  heart  as  a  citadel, 
Where  to  retire  in  every  great  emergence. 
But  trusting  to  thy  faith  and  high  discretion, 
Thou  hast  full  power  when  Kaled  is  away. 

Abd.    Alas,  my  shoulders  are  unfit  to  bear 
Unwonted  burthens  — and  my  heart  misgives, 
Lest  Kaled  may  return  dissatisfied. 

Kaled.    Fear  not.     Thy  course  is  plain.    Follow  it  out, 
And  discontent  can  find  no  place  to  enter. 
Hazard  no  battle  —  and  what  else  betides, 
So  we  possess  Damascus,  all  is  well. 

Abd.  If  Abubekir  be  my  judge,  perhaps 
My  motives  to  advance  the  cause  of  Allah, 
May  make  amends  for  all  imprudences. 

Kaled.    See !  Dera  is  already  on  the  march. 
There  is  a  soldier  who  can  carve  out  empire. 
Yet  should  he  hold  a  sceptre,  his  weak  head 
Would  swim  so,  he  would  dash  his  giddy  brains  out 
And  yet  how  well  he  bears  himself  in  war ! 

(Martial  music;  enter  Dera  with  a  guard  of  Saracens,  wto 


150  ATHENIA  OF  DAMASCUS. 

march  and  counter-march ;  Dera,  in  the  meantime,  gives  up  the 
command  to  Kaled,  and  exeunt.') 

(End  of  Act  II.} 


A    TRAGEDY.  151 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter  LUCRETIUS  andDEcrus. 

Luc.    What,  further  shortened  in  our  poor  allowance  1 

Dec.    The  granaries  are  exhausted. 

Luc.  Gracious  Heaven ! 

Where  will  this  end  1     Yet  no  relief  —  Oh,  patience  ! 
To  what  extent  must  we  endure  these  ills  1 
Oh,  madness !  that  the  Prefect  should  divest 
Syria's  right  arm  of  power  at  such  a  time, 
When  all  its  strength  is  needed  !     Why  was  this  1 

Dec.    He  urges  the  advice  he  gave  the  Senate, 
Though  prompted  by  himself,  and  he  declares 
That  Caloiis  has  o'erstepped  authority, 
Using  a  dangerous  influence  with  the  people. 
'Tis  strange  how  many  unimagined  charges 
Can  swarm  upon  a  man,  when  once  the  lid 
Of  the  Pandora  box  of  contumely 
Is  opened  o'er  his  head  ! 

Luc.  'Tis  strange  indeed  I 

13 


152  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

Dec.    There  never  was  a  soldier  more  deserving-, 
Than  he  who  is  rejected.    He  has  borne 
Office  with  modesty,  performing-  ever, 
His  duty  with  a  promptitude  and  zeal, 
That  many  a  time  have  gained  his  country  laurels. 

Luc.    Nor  is  he  a  mere  soldier. 

Dec.  Far  from  it. 

He  served  his  country  in  a  magistracy, 
And  what  is  wonderful  in  these  bad  times, 
He  never  served  himself.    Why,  look  around, 
And  count,  if  possible,  the  pampered  numbers 
Who  fatten  on  the  state.    They  are  the  men, 
Who,  if  they  find  a  man  too  honourable 
To  be  a  fellow-gleaner  of  the  spoils, 
When  faction's  sickle  sweeps  the  public  wealth, 
Lift  up  their  angry  voices  to  the  crowd, 
And  breathe  around  their  pestilential  breath, 
Till  virtue's  self  is  tainted  by  its  touch : 
So  has  it  been  with  him  ;  the  people  cry 
"  Down  with  the  Greek  !  Give  us  a  Syrian  leader." 
And  for  the  good  which  he  has  done  to  them, 
They  pelt  him  with  hard  curses  —  hiss  at  him  — 
And  call  him  General  of  their  misfortunes. 
But  yesterday,  he  was  their  lord  and  idol ; 
Why,  sir,  the  very  soldiers  curl  their  lips, 
And  whisper  in  sarcastic  raillery, 
Sporting  in  his  disgrace. 


A    TRAGEDY.  153 

Luc.  The  sun  is  set, 

Which  broke  from  the  high  places  on  his  head, 
And  he  who  scattered  its  reflected  beams, 
Condenses  on  his  cold  and  rayless  brow, 
The  reeking  atmosphere  of  insolence. 
The  Prefect  is  a  traitor  to  our  hopes ! 
Some  say  he's  jealous  of  Athenia's  favour, 
As  ill  bestowed ;  thus  for  a  private  pique, 
He  shapes  the  destiny  of  countless  thousands. 

Dec,    Athenia  is  a  noble  gentlewoman, 
Stampt  in  the  finest  mould  of  excellence. 
Rome  in  her  palmiest  state,  when  woman  nursed 
Her  grandeur,  by  the  care  of  her  young  heroes, 
Had  scarce  her  equal.    How  will  she  endure 
This  outrage  on  affection,  she  whose  mind 
High  overtops  all  selfishness  1 

Luc.  Yet  know, 

Her  love  is  but  the  blossom  of  a  tree 
Of  most  luxuriant  verdure  ;  in  her  heart, 
The  love  she  bears  her  country  is  supreme 
To  all  affections  ;  and  her  Christian  zeal 
So  shames  the  false  and  meretricious  colour 
That  mantles  our  deep-grained  hypocrisy, 
That  1  have  sometimes  gazed  on  her  with  awe, 
As  an  angelic  substance.    Many  a  time 
When  her  wrapped  spirit  winged  itself  away 
In  holy  meditation,  I  have  seen 


154  ATHENIA   OF    DAMASCUS. 

Unearthly  beauty  kindle  o'er  her  face, 

And  almost  heard  the  harmony  I  knew 

Her  kindred  thoughts  were  hymning  with  her  God. 

[Shouts  without. 
Why  this  tumult  1 

Dec.  Probably  the  appointment 

Of  Manlius  the  Centurion. 

[Shouts  continue. 
Shout  away ! 

Toss  up  your  caps,  enjoy  your  festival ! 
Riot  in  madness  !  —  in  a  few  brief  hours, 
You'll  wear  your  chains  more  gracefully  for  this  : 
Here  comes  lord  Caloiis  —  I  will  leave  you  to  him. 

[Exit. 
Enter  CALOUS. 

Luc.  Noble  Calous, 

I  greet  thee  with  a  soldier's  sympathy  ! 

Cal     Thanks  for  this  courtesy  ! 

Luc.  Do'st  thou  not  grieve 

To  see  Damascus  mad ) 

Cal  Say,  had  she  cause 

To  blow  this  mildew  on  my  honour's  bud? 

Luc.    Never !  thou'st  always  served  her  like  a  son,. 
And  she  has  proved  a  most  unnatural  mother, 

Cal.     Why,  she  has  cast  me  offj  as  I  had  been 
Tainted  with  crime.    Lucretius,  thou'rt  a  man 


A   TRAGEDY.  155 

Lifted  so  high  above  the  influence 

Of  popular  breath  that  sways  these  demagogues, 

That  in  my  sore  distress  I  come  to  ask 

For  counsel  in  this  great  calamity. 

What  shall  I  do,  Lucretius,  proudly  scorning 

To  court  the  pity  of  the  multitude  ; 

Degraded,  stigmatised,  and  pointed  at 

By  the  bought  fingers  of  those  brainless  shapes 

Which  call  each  other  men? 
Luc.  Ask'st  thou  me  ] 

Cal    Ay,  good  Lucretius,  what  is  to  be  done  1 
Luc.    Set  thou  the  first  example  of  true  greatness, 

And  pity  an  infatuated  people. 

What  is't  to  thee,  that  others  do  thee  wrong  ? 

Thou  art  thyself,  amidst  the  worst  injustice, 

That  hatred  can  heap  up  upon  thy  head. 

Revenge  thy  wrongs  with  magnanimity ; 

Build  up  thy  virtue  higher  than  the  clouds 

That  human  passion  girts  the  good  man  with, 

And  let  perpetual  sunshine  rest  upon  it. 

Forgive  thy  country,  pity  her,  and  save ! 

Cal    Oh,  would  I  could,  Lucretius,  —  would  I  could ! 

But  she  has  come  to  such  a  pass,  I  fear 

That  patriotism  is  dead,  while  selfishness 

Stalks  like  a  pestilential  spectre  forth, 

The  shadow  of  her  ruin  ! 
Luc.  No  one  knows . 

13* 


156  ATHENIA   OF   DAMASCUS. 

The  influence  of  individual  effort. 

The  lowliest  man  wields  every  day  and  hour, 

A  moral  lever  which  may  sway  the  world. 

But  one  who  stands  as  thou  do'st,  far  apart, 

And  islanded  amidst  the  foaming  crowd, 

That  chafes  upon  his  shore  — his  high  example 

Gives  life  unto  a  system,  and  'tis  his 

To  be  the  saviour  or  the  scourge  of  men  ! 

Cal    True,  good  Lucretius,  it  is  very  true. 
Thine  is  a  fine  philosophy ;  I  feel 
The  holy  inspiration  that  breathes  forth 
From  thy  pure  precepts ;  but  humanity  L 
Poor,  error-loving,  fond  humanity  — 
How  do'st  thou  read  the  wisdom  of  the  skies, 
Yet  turn  to  gaze  on  earth  ! 
Farewell !  I'll  think  upon  thy  good  advice, 
And  sigh  o'er  its  instruction.  [Exit. 

[Shouts  without. 

Luc.    Farewell,  thou  noble  and  most  injured  man  ! 
Here  are  chromatic  discords  that  might  stir 
A  frame  less  sensitive.     Shout,  shout  away ! 
Ignoble  slaves !  abominable  tyrants ! 

[Shouts  approach. 
Well,  ye  may  come  this  way —  1  shall  not  shun  ye  ! 

[Enter  a  crowd  of  people  with  clubs. 

1st  Oil.    Here  is  a  fellow  of  the  same  fine  trim, 
A  rank  aristocrat. 


A   TRAGEDY.  157 

2nd  Cit.  Look  ye,  my  hearty  ! 

Where  have  ye  snugged  away  that  clean-faced  scoundrel  1 

Luc.    Whom  seek  ye,  sage  supporters  of  the  state  — 
Supreme  dictators,  worthy  mobocrats  ! 
Can  poor  Lucretius  serve  ye  any  way? 

]  st  Cit.    Where's  the  aristocrat  ]  bring  him  before  us  ! 

Luc.     Whom  is  it  that  ye  call  aristocrat  1 

1st  Cit.    Caloiis,  the  white-washed  Greek  —  our  former 
General. 

Luc.    A  nobler  nature  ne'er  was  sacrificed 
To  an  ungrateful  people  !  hark  ye,  sirs  ! 
This  Caloiis,  whom  ye  basely  vilify, 
Echoing  the  noisy  demagogues  that  rule  ye  — 

Many  voices.    We  are  not  ruled  —  we  are  the  sovereign 
people. 

Luc.    Ye  are  the  lowest  of  all  earthly  slaves ! 
Ye  suffer  to  be  collared,  bridled,  bitted  ; 
Ye  let  your  riders  mount  ye,  so  they  cry, 
"  Dear  sovereign  people,  sinews  of  the  state." 
Ye're  led  as  asses  are  —  as  willingly  — 
So  your  conductors  flatter  you  with  crying 
"  'Tis  as  you  will,  your  will  is  all  supreme, 
Most  honest  people  !" 

Many  voices.  Down  with  this  Lucretius  ! 

Luc.    If,  haply,  midst  your  crowd  of  servile  flatterers, 
An  independent  child  of  God  is  found, 
To  assert  the  great  prerogative  of  man, 


158 


ATHENIA   OF   DAMASCUS. 


And  speak  the  truth  with  boldness,  instantly, 
Ye  cry,  «  aristocrat,"  «  oppressor,"  tyrant !" 
Ye  are  yourselves  your  only  true  oppressors  ; 
Ye  are  yourselves  the  true  aristocrats  ; 
Ye  are  the  kind  of  tyrants,  who,  stark  mad, 
Blind,  and  bewildered,  grope  among  themselves, 
And  sacrifice  each  other.    Get  ye  home, 
And  purge  away  the  dulness  of  your  eyes, 
To  see  your  true  condition.    Gracious  Heaven  ! 
Will  the  time  ever  come  when  man  shall  learn 
There's  such  a  thing  as  too  much  liberty  ? 

Many  voices.    Down  with  this  rank  aristocrat,  down  with 
him. 

Luc.     Ye  dare  not  lay  a  finger  on  my  head, 
Unworthy  Syrians  !  I  defy  your  rage  1 
Where  is  your  leader  1  let  him  show  his  face — 
Ye  are  a  pack  of  cowards,  every  one, 
Scared  even  at  each  other  1    Do  ye  come 
To  seek  out  Caloiis  ?  —  Why  look  ye,  sirs  ] 
Were  Caloiis  here,  he'd  frown  ye  to  submission. 
Here  is  some  money  for  you ;  —  get  some  drink, 
And  pledge  us  your  good  wishes  —  do,  1  pray  ye  ! 

Many  people.     [All  scrambling  for  the  money.'] 
Huzza  for  Caloiis  !  long  live  Lucretius  ! 
Huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  ! 

[Exeunt  tumultuously. 

Luc.    I'd  buy  a  million  of  ye,  had  I  money, 


•I  KQ 

A   TRAGEDY. 


For  any  act  rebellious.    God  have  mercy  ! 
If  our  deliverance  rests  on  such  as  these  ! 

[Exit. 


SCENE  II. 

An  Apartment  in  EUPHRON'S  house.  —  ATHENIA  and  ADA. 

Ada.    Why  does  my  mistress  weep?     It  grieves  my  heart  1 
To  see  her  shed  so  many  tears — has  Ada 
Offended  her] 

Ath.  Hush,  Ada,  I  am  done  — 

The  fountain  is  exhausted.     Have  you  seen 
My  father  in  his  usual  walk,  to-day  1 

Ada.    Early  this  morning — not  since  he  went  abroad. 

Ath.    Would  he  were  within  !  my  heart  is  heavy, 
And  longs  to  pour  its  griefs  within  some  bosom. 
There  is  a  noise  in  his  apartment  now ; 
Go,  Ada,  call  him  to  me,  and  request, 
If  he  have  leisure,  a  short  interview.  , 

[Exit  Ada,  who  returns  immediately. 

Ada.    'Tis  not  your  father,  madam. 

Ath.  Not  my  father  ! 

Ada.    It  is  a  holy  friar  —  an  intimate  ; 
I've  seen  him  often  pass  the  corridor. 
But  never  with  your  father. 


160  ATHENIA   OF    DAMASCUS. 

Ath.  Call  him  thither ! 

[Exit  Ada. 

My  spirits  would  be  lightened  of  this  weight, 
That  presses  them  to  earth.     Why  are  we  thus 
The  sport  of  circumstance  —  that  some  light  breath 
Should  quench  the  taper  that  dispelled  the  night, 
And  call  it  back  again  ? 

Enter  ADA. 

Ada.    My  lady,  he  is  gone  —  his  hurried  step 
Chid  my  request,  ere  I  had  uttered  it. 

Ath.    Oh,  for  a  sister's  heart,  to  share  with  mine, 
Its  burthen  of  affection. 

Ada.  Dearest  lady ! 

Ath.    My  gentle  girl,  dost  thou  not  sometimes  wish 
To  be  among  the  playmates  of  thy  home, 
And  watch  the  antelopes  among  the  hills, 
Bounding  from  crag  to  crag ;  and  hear  the  storm 
Sounding  majestic  anthems  1 

Ada.  Dearest  lady ! 

I  often  think  of  home  • — but  'tis  to  bless 
My  parents  that  they  gave  my  youth  to  thee. 
Oh,  they  were  kind,  and  taught  me  how  to  live  ; 
But  thou,  alone,  hast  taught  me  how  to  die  ! 
May  I  not  call  thee,  sister? 

Ath.  Yes,  sweet  Ada  ! 


A     TRAGEDY.  161 

Enter  EUFHRON,  in  haste. 
Oh,  my  father ! 

Euph.  Quickly,  Athenia, 

Tell  me  who  passed  the  corridor  just  now? 

Ath.    Why,  father?  was  it  not  the  holy  friar, 
Who  visits  you  so  often  1 

Ada.  It  was  he. 

1  saw  him  pass  with  an  unusual  speed, 
Some  time  ago. 

Euph.  Hark  !  what  noise  is  that  1 

Again  1 

[Going  to  the  window. 
Look  how  the  people  hurry  through  the  streets  ! 

[Bell  strikes. 
Why  all  this  tumult  ?  treason,  by  the  cross  ! 

Ath.    God  forbid !  God  forbid  ! 

Enter  a  Soldier. 

Euph.    How  now?   what  means  this  tumult  ?  speak!  1 
charge  thee ! 

Sold.    My  tongue  refuses  utterance — I  cannot. 

Euph.    Slave,  if  you  think  to  trifle  with  me  thus, 
I'll  hurl  thy  trunkless  head  among  the  crowd. 
Speak,  chicken-hearted  varlet ! 

Sold.    Treason  is  out  —  Caloiis  has  fled  to  Kaled ! 

Ath.    Liar !     May  heaven's  hot  lightning  scorch  thy  heart, 
Infamous  liar !  'tis  false,  thou  hollow  villain  — 


162  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

Caloiis  a  traitor  !  Caloiis  fled  to  Kaled ! 
Sooner  would  Michael  fly  to  the  arch  fiend, 
And  storm  the  throne  of  heaven ! 

Euph.  Impossible! 

Ath.    Ay,  though  you  stripped  him  of  his  oaken  crown, 
Blasted  his  full-blown  honours  —  banished  him  — 
He  could  not  play  the  Roman  exile's  part, 
And  strike  against  his  country  ! 

Yet  that  dream ! 

How  like  an  ugly  fiend  at  murky  night, 

It  rises  up  before  me  !  —  Hence,  base  phantoms ! 

Ye  hell-engendered  offspring  of  bad  thoughts, 

Back  to  your  sulphurous  caverns  ! Air ! 

[Faints. 

The  attendants  support  ATHENA—  Another  soldier  enters. 

Euph.  More  news! 

Out  with  it  screaming  raven  —  tell  us  quickly, 
Is  it  all  true  1    Has  Caloiis  fled  indeed  1 

Sold.    Most  basely  fled. 

Euph,  Then  are  we  lost,  forever  ! 

Ath.   [Reviving.]    Where  is  lord  Caloiis  1 

[looking  around,  wildly. 

Euph.  Alas!  tittyWi^tclieddatiglitWi 

Caloiis  has  played  the  traitor  to  his  trust, 
And  sacrified  his  country.    Damned  villain ! 

Ath.    Speak  not  thus  !  speak  not  thus  !  in  pity  father  ; 
I  never  knew  you  thus ;  your  own  Athenia, 


A    TRAGEDY.  163 

Your  daughter,  father,  begs  you  to  forbear  ! 

No  !  no  !  no !  no  !  — just  heaven,  avert  the  omen ! 

Euph.    Alas  !  my  gentle  sufferer,  'tis  too  true  ! 

Ath.    Then  thou  eternal  father  of  all  truth, 
Pour  out  the  vials  of  thy  wrath  upon  him. 
May  his  false  heart  blaze  with  the  flames  of  hell, 
And  crust  to  ashes.     [kneels.]     Here  I  vow  to  thee, 
Never  again  to  commune  with  kind  thoughts, 
Till  thy  sure  retribution  mete  to  him 
The  scourge  of  perfidy  !     Hence,  charmer,  hence  ! 
Come  black  revenge,  revenge  that  knows  no  stay, 
From  that  cold  grave,  where  lies  my  buried  love, 
And  may  death's  angel  hover  o'er  his  path, 
And  darken  it  still  deeper  with  despair ! 

[  While  she  is  still  kneeling,  the  scene  closes.] 


SCENE  III. 

Near  the  Saracen  camp. 
Enter  CALOUS,  (throwing  ojf  a  friar' s  dress.) 

Col.    Now  then  I'll  play  the  villain  —  thus  the  soul 
Strips  off  its  mortal  dress  to  play  the  fiend, 
And  lure  confiding  fools  to  certain  ruin. 
Unhappy  city  !  I  can  bear  your  curses  ; 
Howl  your  wrath  louder  yet ;  a  few  more  hours 
Shall  change  this  jarring  discord  to  a  hymn 
14 


164 


ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS. 


Of  gratitude  and  joy.     And  thou,  Athenia ! 
Thou  who  hast  chained  me  to  the  car  of  love, 
Keep  back  the  ignorant  current  of  thy  thoughts, 
And  let  its  tranquil  beauty,  as  is  wont, 
Paint  the  clear  depths  of  heaven  ! 

This  should  be 

The  outposts  of  their  camp.     Now  steel  thy  heart, 
Caloiis,  for  perfidy  !  —  forgive  me,  heaven, 
If  thou  can'st  sanctify  unrighteous  means, 
To  aid  the  cause  of  Christian  truth  and  mercy  ! 
Hist !  who  is  here  ]  sure  'tis  a  Syrian  woman  ;  — 
Ah  me  !  what  sorrows  may  that  creature  have  ! 
For  none  but  earth-deserted  wanderers, 
From  yon  beleagured  charnel-house  of  wo, 
Would  seek  asylum  here.     Who  art  thou,  woman  ] 

Enter  OPHIRA,  who  does  not  heed  CALOUS. 

Oph.  Who  said  the  ravens  brought  Elijah  food  1  Hush  ! 
'twas  the  vulture's  scream !  —  'Twas  manna  saved  them. 
To  think  that  the  monster  could  kill  her  own  child  !  —  She 
ought  to  have  nursed  the  poor  innocent.  I  wish  it  had  been 
mine.  Come  !  come !  come  !  1  will  not  hurt  you !  Ophira 
is  only  a  lone  woman  !  —  Now,  we  can  talk  the  matter  over- 
He  said  that  man-slaughter  and  man* s-laughter  were  the  same 
thing  !  —  ha !  ha  !  ha !  —  well  might  the  screech-owl  laugh  ! 

Cal.  Unhappy  woman ! 

Oph.     (Discovering  him.)     Ha !  I  have  found  you  then ! 


A    TRAGEDY. 


165 


why  do  you  not  go  home  to  her,  if  she  is  unhappy  7  She 
gave  me  food,  and  I  left  her  mad  !  They  are  all  mad  now ! 

Cat.  Merciful  Heaven ! 

Oph.  1  told  them  so !  though  they  all  blasphemed  and 
hissed  at  me.  I  told  Athenia  that  I  would  find  you,  too ;  but 
I  cannot  find  him.  Tell  me,  for  the  love  of  God,  where  they 
have  buried  my  husband  ? 

Cal  Distraction ! 

Oph.  Look  you  here,  sir ;  tell  me,  is  not  this  a  sweet  corpse  ? 
Yet  Ophira  is  not  mad.  I  wish  she  were;  for  see,  how 
they  look  at  me  as  they  pass  along :  there !  they  are  whisper 
ing  about  it  now  !  [Falls  down. 

Cal  (Aside.)  Poor  maniac ! 

Oph.  1  heard  her  tell,  how  she  and  her  husband  were 
lost  in  a  desert,  where  they  could  not  get  any  food.  How 
the  Arabs  murdered  him,  while  the  poor  child  starved  at  her 
parched  bosom.  It  was  a  sweet  ballad,  though  enough  to 
break  a  heart  of  stone.  It  went  thus  : 

(Sings.} 
"  The  Elf-King  breathed  in  its  infant  ear. 

While  the  earth-worm  coiled  in  its  clayey  bed." 

I  forget  the  rest ;  but  it  went  on  to  tell,  how  they  laid  it  un 
der  the  cypress  tree,  and  covered  it  with  fresh  flowers.  Let 
us  now  go  home,  and  leave  them  all  in  the  church-yard. 
They  are  sound  asleep  —  don't  wake  them  !  hush — sh  !  let 
me  cover  you  over,  my  dear  child !  —  there  !  [Dies, 


166  ATHENIA    OF  DAMASCUS. 

Cat,     This  is  but  one  of  the  unnumbered  ills, 
Conquest  has  brought  Damascus  —  such  is  war ! 
Oh  heavens  !  when  will  the  spiritual  sun  arise, 
And  with  his  beams  effulgent,  drive  away 
The  mists  of  error  that  so  long  have  hung 
Their  dark,  unnatural  drapery  o'er  the  mind, 
That  broods  o'er  human  carnage  !  when  will  man 
Turn  from  the  path  of  Cain,  and  learn  to  see 
A  brother  without  hating  ]     Hear  me,  Heaven  !  — 
Alas  !  how  much  have  /  to  be  forgiven  ! 

[Exit. 

(End  of  Act  III} 


A   TRAGEDY.  167 


ACT  IV. 


SCENE  I. 

Inside  of  the  Saracen  tent.    ABDALLAH  surrounded  with 
Soldiers. 

Abd.  No  news  from  Kaled  yet  ? 

Officer.  Nothing  decisive. 

But  from  the  Christian  captives  we  have  learned 
Intelligence,  that  he  has  met  the  foe. 
Allah  is  on  our  side,  and  we  must  conquer. 

Abd.    Oh,  that  Mohammed  would  come  down  from  Heaven, 
And  teach  us,  o'er  again,  those  holy  lessons 
We  have  so  soon  forgotten:!     Not  for  war 
Nor  conquest  was  the  Koran  sent  to  earth  ; 
But  to  teach  men  to  live.     Would  Kaled  knew 
That  mercy  is  the  attribute  of  Allah ! 

Enter  a  Soldier., 

Sold.    Strength  to  the  arm  of  Allah !   Gracious  Abdallah, 
A  Christian  prisoner  waits  to  be  admitted  I 
14* 


168  ATHENIA   OF   DAMASCUS. 

Abd.    Bring  him  before  us. 

[Exit  Soldier. 
Now  would  they  be  wise 
And  barter  infidelity  for  faith, 
Damascus  still  might  be  their  Paradise. 

(Re-enter  soldier  with  CALOUS  in  chains. 

This  is  no  common  man  !  his  high  blood  speaks 
Even  in  his  silence.    As  I  live,  the  same  ! 
Art  thou  not  Caloiis,  the  Syrian  leader  1 

Col.    I  wore  the  livery  once,  that  slaves  for  fame  I 
To-day  I  am  an  outcast  of  the  earth  : 
But  Heaven  has  set  a  mark  upon  my  brow, 
By  wrhich  Abdallah  knows  the  thing  that  was. 
1  am  thy  willing  prisoner ! 

Abd.  This  is  strange  ! 

Why  do'st  thou  say  a  willing  prisoner  ] 

Cal.    i  am  that  wretched  thing  which  men  call  traitor ! 

Abd.    Is 't  possible? 

Cal.  I  am  a  liar  else. 

Abd.    He  who  can  turn  a  traitor  to  his  cause, 
And  sell  his  country,  is  the  worst  of  liars ! 

Cal.    I  do  not  sell  my  country,  she  sells  me ! 

Abd.    How  sells  thee  ] 

Cal.  Listen  to  me,  sage  Abdallah  ! 

Thou  hast  a  reputation  which  transcends 
The  narrow  confines  of  the  Arab's  path, 


A   TRAGEDY.  169 

And  Christian  princes,  though  they  will  not  learn, 
Have  listen'd  to  thy  more  than  Christian  wisdom. 
Abdallah  !  I  address  thee  as  a  man, 
With  all  his  human  frailties  thick  upon  him  ;  — 
Hear  then  my  story —  weigh  it  and  believe. 

Abd.    Proceed  !  I'll  throw  my  passions  in  one  scale 
And  yours  in  th'  other —  and  I'll  sit  in  the  midst, 
Portioning  my  humanity,  to  keep 
The  balance,  lest  thy  own  preponderate. 

Cal    But  yesterday,  —  alas !  the  wond'rous  change, 
That  one  short  revolution  of  this  globe, 
May  bring  to  man  !  —  but  yesterday  1  was  the  pride  — 
The  pillar  of  Damascus.    Thou,  Abdallah  ! 
Know'st  how  1  fought  her  battles. 

Abd.  Would  to  Allah, 

Thou  hadst  been  half  as  zealous  in  his  cause  ! 
Cal.    Dissention  in  our  ranks,  and  foul  disunion 

Have  turned  my  little  merit  to  a  fault, 

And  magnified  the  transformation  so, 

It  frights  them  to  behold  it.    Need  I  tell  thee  ! 

They  would  have  sued  for  peace,  and  I  opposed  it. 

And  being  unsuccessful  yesterday, 

The  faction  which  had  yielded  up  the  city, 

Have  cried  me  down,  and  heaped  on  me  their  scorn  ; 

While  Euphron,  who  was  bound  to  take  my  part, 

Has  turned  me  from  my  office,  and  disgraced  me. 
Abd.    Oh,  faction  !  what  a  fiend  on  earth  art  thou  ! 


170  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

The  madness  of  a  party  or  a  sect,. 

Is  but  a  whip  placed  in  the  hands  of  men, 

To  scourge  our  vices  with.     Oh,  Caloiis  ! 

Thou  art  our  bitterest  enemy ;  and  yet, 

There  is  an  echo  from  my  inmost  heart, 

Responsive  to  thine  own ;  —  but  can  1  think 

Thy  noble  nature  would  have  stoop'd  so  low, 

To  play  the  traitor,  and  disgrace  thy  blood, 

As  thou  wilt  here  pretend?     Thou  do'st  deceive  me. 

Cal    Alas  !  my  passions  weighing  against  thine, 
Bear  down  that  same  humanity  thou  speak'st  of ; 
Have  I  asked  any  favour  at  thy  hand, 
That  thou  should'st  so  discredit  my  intentions  ? 
My  life  is  in  thy  power,  I  pray  thee  take  it ; 
For  I  do  loathe  existence,  which  can  bring 
Nothing  but  foul  dishonour  every  way. 

Abd.    Would  that  I  could  believe  thee  —  but  I  cannot 

Cal.    1  tell  thee,  sir,  I  have  renounced  my  country  — 
Its  rank  idolatry  —  ingratitude  — 
And  all  that  1  have  cherished,  or  have  loved. 

Abd.  Impossible ! 

Cal.  And  given  myself  to  Islam  t 

Abd.  To  Islam? 

Cal  To  the  Prophet. 

Abd.  Gracious  Allah ! 

Can  this  be  true  ? 

Cal  God  is  the  only  God,, 


A    TRAGEDY.  171 

Mohammed  is  his  Prophet ! 

Abd.  [Throwing  himself  into  his  arms. 

Caloiis  ! 

Forgive  me !  I  have  wronged  thee !  how  should  1 
Have  known  the  gracious  will  of  the  Most  High  ? 
'Twas  He  who  turned  thy  heart  from  Syria ; 
'Twas  He  who  reconciled  thy  heart  to  Him, 
In  this  mysterious  way ! — Kneel  then,  good  brother! 
And  thank  with  me  the  Father  of  all  light. 

[They  kneel  together. 

Col.  Oh,  what  a  wretch  am  I !         [Aside. 

Abd.        [Rising.]        Now  then,  my  brother, 
Thou  hast  disarmed  suspicion — let  me  know 
Freely  thy  purpose,  and  1  will  endeavour 
To  lend  a  patient  hearing  to  thy  words. 

Cat.    Know  then,  I  come  to  ask  no  favour  of  thee, 
Unless  it  be  a  favour  to  allow 
Cooperation  in  thy  great  design 
Of  conquering  Damascus ! 

Abd.  Say'st  thou  so ! 

Cal.    Guard  me,  and  hold  above  my  recreant  head, 
Thy  sharpest  scimitar.    I'll  show  the  way, 
At  midnight,  where  a  secret  passage  leads 
Right  to  the  city's  heart :  when  this  is  done, 
Strike  through  my  neck,  and  seal  the  truth  1  utter. 

Abd.    And  ask'st  thou  no  reward  for  this  great  service ! 

Cal.    Only  the  privilege  to  die  revenged. 


172  ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS. 

Abd.    Thou  wouldst  not  bathe  thy  hands  in  kindred  blood  1 
Cal.  No! 

Abd.     Wouldst  thou  strike  the  ruler  who  disgraced  thee  ] 
Cal.    I  said  I  would  not  ask  to  be  rewarded  — 
Yet  would  I  have  thy  promise  not  to  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood  :  — 
Abd.  Thy  wish  is  granted. 

Cal.  An  oath  ! 

Abd.    I  swear  to  thee  by  Mecca's  tomb, 
To  keep  my  word  inviolate. 

Cal.  Enough ! 

At  midnight  I  will  teach  thee  to  elude 
The  watchful  sentinel — and  ere  the  dawn 
Leads  on  Aurora,  there  shall  be  a  cry, 
Such  as  Damascus  has  not  heard  before, 
In  her  distresses. 

Abd.  Caloiis,  I  believe 

Sincerity  has  stampt  thy  every  word  ; 

But  I  am  ruling  now  in  Kaled's  stead 

Cal    Ruling  in  Kaled's  stead  ? 
Abd.  Ay,  in  his  place. 

Why,  know  they  not,  in  thy  unhappy  city, 
That  Kaled  has  withdrawn  one  half  his  forces, 
To  meet  the  imperial  arms  and  give  them  battle  1 

Cal.    No  !  on  my  life.  Oh,  would  they  had  but  known  it ! 

[Aside. 
Abd.    What  do'st  thou  think  of  that,  ransomed  of  Allah  ] 


A    TRAGEDY.  173 

Cal    I  cannot  wish  the  imperial  army  ill  — 
So  it  bring  DO  relief  unto  Damascus  ! 

Abd.   Oh,  have  no  fear  of  that ;  /  have  no  fear. 
Before  to-morrow's  dawn,  Kaled  will  bring 
The  trophies  of  his  victory. 

Cal  Now,  God  forbid  ! 

[Aside. 

Abd.     Caloiis !  it  grieves  me  to  declare  it  to  thee  ! 
I  cannot  strike  those  fetters  from  thy  arms, 
Till  thou  hast  made  thy  promises  secure ! 

Cal.    Chains  cannot  fetter  the  free  mirxd.     Ah  me  ! 

[Aside. 
Would  that  they  could !  when  conscience  tortures  it ! 

Abd.    Now  then  for  action  !     Soldiers  to  your  posts  ! 
This  night  we  have  Damascus  ! 

[Exeunt. 
Cal.     [Loitering.]     Precious  villain  4 


SCENE  II. 

An  apartment  in  EUPHRON'S  house.    EUPHRON  alone. 

Euph.    'Tis  done  !     Another  day  will  drop  the  scroll, 
Whore  in  the  record  of  revolving  years 
And  great  events,  Damascus'  fate  is  written. 
Angel  of  Hope  !  thou,  who,  when  dark  despair 


174 


ATHENIA  OF  DAMASCUS, 


Hangs  heavily,  with  sable  pinions  spread, 
To  shut  out  Heaven  from  the  desponding  soul, 
Fiercest  the  sombre  veil,  and  bringst  us  peace, 
Come  from  thy  seraph-home  and  gild  this  hour 
So  wrapt  in  clouds  of  dim  uncertainty  !  — 

[Pauses. 

Caloiis,  ere  this  has  gained  the  ear  of  Kaled, 
And  acted  like  a  player,  his  hard  part. 
Now,  were  Abdallah  chief  instead  of  him, 
The  Arab's  pity  might  be  taught  to  flow 
Like  some  poor  heart-sick  maiden's,  at  a  tale 
Less  true  than  this  great  fiction  now  on  foot. 
Oh,  would  Athenia's  grief  were  no  more  real ! 

Enter  ATHENIA. 

My  daughter !  [Embracing  her. 

Afh.  Dearest  father ! 

[Bursting  into  tears :  —  then  with  emotion. 

Caloiis ! 

To  think  that  he,  of  all  men,  should  prove  false ! 
Oh  wretch,  to  give  away  my  heart  to  love ! 
Oh  fool,  to  traffic  my  immortal  soul, 
For  such  a  recreant's  worship !  oh,  my  father, 
The  hope  I  should  have  anchored  on  my  God, 
1  threw  away  on  him.    Oh,  help  me,  father  ! 
1  have  no  other  father  beside  thee  ! 
Save  thy  poor  daughter  !  —oh,  my  brain  is  hot, 


A  TRAGEDY.  175 

And  my  heart  swells  to  bursting; — I  have  prayed 

[Solemnly. 

Most  fervently  for  death — but  without  faith  ; 
I  have  waked  up  at  last,  to  the  dark  truth, 
That  all  my  heart's  devotion  has  been  false : 
'Twas  my  imagination  that  I  served, 
And  not  my  Maker !     Heaven  have  mercy  on  me ! 

Euph.    Amen.    May  Heaven  have  mercy  on  us  all ! 

Afh.     Why,  what  a  sinful,  selfish  thing  am  I ! 
My  own  particular  grief  absorbs  the  world's !  — 
Here  is  Damascus  reeling  to  her  fall, 
While  I,  myself,  am  wailing.    Patience,  Heaven ! 

Euph.  Hold  to  that  fond  idea,  my  sweet  child, 
And  pray  to  Heaven  for  patience.  Oh,  just  God  ! 
Look  down  upon  my  child,  and  pity  her  ! 

Afh.    No ;  do  not  ask  Him  to  look  down  on  me  ! 
I'll  hide  me  from  Him,  like  the  first  weak  creature 
Who  curs'd  herself  for  love  !      Oh,  conscience-smitten, 
Vain,  foolish  woman,  how  art  thou  a  prey 
To  thy  wild  fantasy ! 

Euph.  My  dear  Athenia ! 

Yield  not  to  this  too  stern  necessity  ; 

Time,  which  has  brought  thee  grief,  will  bring  thee  comfort. 
Think  how  Damascus  suffers  ! 

Ath.  Oh,  ido! 

Poor,  widowed,  lone  Damascus.     Yes,  my  father, 
I'll  steel  my  bosom  for  this  double  strife  — 
15 


176 


ATHENIA   OF    DAMASCUS. 


Bury  my  hopes  and  perish  with  my  country  ! 

Euph.    Thou  shalt  not  perish  —  neither  shall  Damascus. 
Come,  cheer  thy  heart,  sweet  mourner,  there  is  hope 
I  have  not  told  thee  of.     To-morrow's  sun 
Shall  find  the  imperial  army  at  our  gates. 

Ath.    That  were  a  joy  too  mighty !     Do'st  thou  think  so  ? 

Euph.    1  know  so,  my  dear  daughter. 

Ath>  But,  my  father, 

I  dreamed  an  angel  touched  my  lips  with  fire, 
And  bade  me  prophesy  ! 

Euph.  It  was  thy  fancy. 

Ath.     (Solemnly.)     Father,  his  wings  were  like  a  summer 

cloud 

Touched  with  the  sunset ;  and  they  veiled  his  face, 
Which  streamed  such  dazzling  brightness,  I  fell  down, 
Stunn'd  with  unearthly  splendour.     While  I  lay, 
Like  Saul,  God-smitten,  paralysed  with  dread, 
A  voice  that  mocked  all  melody  that  floats 
From  choral  song  and  instrumental  breath, 
Bade  me  arise.     And  as  I  rose,  a  hand 
Immortal,  touched  my  quivering  lips  with  fire* 
And  then  a  voice  like  many  thunders  rent 
The  dome  of  Heaven's  high  temple,  crying  loudly : 
"  Go,  prophesy  the  downfall  of  Damascus  ! 
"  Her  sins  are  scarlet,  and  they  cry  aloud 
"  In  blasphemy  !  —  her  day  of  doom  is  come. 
"  Wo  to  Damascus  !  wo  to  the  head  of  Syria  !" 


A    TRAGEDY.  177 

[Raxing.] 

Merciful  Heaven,  suspend  this  retribution  ! 
Hold  thou  death-angel !  take  another  bolt, 
That  will  bring  madness !     Let  me  not  go  mad  ! 
I  would  not  die  in  madness  !  — 

Euph.  Oh,  my  daughter  ! 

Afh.    My  mind !  my  mind  !     Oh,  the  dull  agony 
Of  this  alternate  glimmering  and  shadow, 
That  will  not  let  me  fix  my  unhinged  thought ! 
Lie  still  thou  fluttering  traitress  !     Tis  %  fault ; 
Thou'st  gorged  thyself  with  honeyed  hopes  so  long, 
Thou  do'st  rebel  against  these  bitter  drugs 
Of  wholesome  sorrow  and  untasted  anguish  : 
Despair  is  med'cine  for  thee  —  drink  or  die  ! 

EupJi.     Oh,  if  thou  lov'st  thy  father,  talk  not  thus ! 

AtJi.     [With forced  calmness.] 
Is  it  not  strange  that  reason  should  see  madness 
Tugging  to  reach  her  throne  —  and  still  more  strange, 
For  consciousness  to  see  the  two  at  war, 
Throttling  for  mastery,  in  their  great  death-struggle  ? 

[Smiling  unnaturally.] 

Thou  see'st  I  yet  can  think,  my  dear,  dear  father  ! 
Such  is  the  power  of  my  most  strenuous  will. 
Now  I  will  go  and  say  my  evening  prayers, 
And  then  to  bed.     Good  night !  good  night,  dear  father  ! 

[As  she  goes  out.] 
Wo  to  Damascus  !  wo  !  [Exit. 


178  ATHENIA    OF   DAMASCUS. 

Euph.    Good  night !  good  night !  may  blessed  messengers 
Hold  thee  in  peaceful  slumbers  —  and  the  morn 
That  finds  Damascus  free,  awake  thy  smile 
To  greet  her  unexpected  happiness  !  — 

Enter  LUCRETIUS. 

How  now,  Lucretius  !  welcome. 

Luc.  Euphron ! 

Thou'st  done  a  mighty  wrong  to  Syria, 
And  now  thou  givest  a  welcome  to  a  man, 
Who  comes  to  rate  thy  folly. 

Euph.  How  is  thisl 

Luc.    Hast  thou  not  sold  thy  country  for  a  bribe  1 

Euph*  Never ! 

Luc.  Betrayed  it  ] 

Euph.  On  my  soul  1  have  not ! 

Luc.    Where  is  our  General,  Caloiis  1 

Euph.  Revolted. 

Luc.    And  why  has  he  revolted  ]  —  tell  me  that. 

Euph.  Go  ask  the  people. 

Luc.  Ask  the  people  !  —  Traitor ! 

Euph.    'Tis  well  for  thee,  that  midst  the  public  wo, 
The  railer  has  the  privilege  to  fret, 
Or  I  would  have  thee  whipt  for  insolence  ! 

Luc.    Poor  fool !  thou  art  beside  thyself — thou  know'st 
Twere  more  than  thy  bad  life  is  worth,  to  do  it. 
Where  is  that  wretched  victim  of  injustice, 


A      TRAGEDY. 

Whom  1  must  call  thy  daughter  ] 

EupJi.    I  prithee  do  not  cut  my  heart  in  twain  — 
It  is  already  sundered  so,  its  parts 
Divide  with  life  and  death.    Thou  canst  not  judge 
A  father's  feelings,  who  hast  had  no  child  ! 
Lucretius,  thou  hast  done  me  cruel  wrong  ! 
Yet  I  forgive  thee,  for  thou  art  a  man 
Incapable  of  meditating  evil. 
I  do  entreat  thee,  wait  awhile  with  patience. 
Time  will  unravel  all  this  mystery ; 
And  thou  wilt  turn  thy  curses  into  blessings  ; 
The  people,  too,  will  bless  me  ! 

Luc.  They  are  mad : 

Too  late  they  find  the  folly  of  their  course, 
In  being  led  so  blindly ;  and  they  rave 
In  bitterness  of  heart,  against  the  Senate. 
Manlius,  whom  you  so  wickedly  have  raised, 
Already  have  they  sacrificed. 

Euph.  Indeed ! 

Luc.    Indeed  !  in  very  deed  ;  art  thou  the  Prefect,. 
And  still  art  ignorant  of  what  is  doing  ? 
Go  to  the  market-place,  and  see  the  ruin 
Which  twenty  thousand  furious  men  have  wrought 
Within  an  hour  —  the  Arab  need  not  come  ; 
Despair  and  rage  are  enemies  enough 
To  crush  a  hundred  cities  like  Damascus. 
Tell  me,  where  is  Athenia? 

15* 


179 


180  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

Euph.  Just  now  retired, 

Heart-sick,  and  laden  with  excessive  sorrow ; 
She  would  not  be  disturbed. 

Luc.  I  did  intend 

To  proffer  comfort  to  her  —  yet,  alas  ! 
What  solace  could  I  offer  ] 

Euph.  None,  whatever. 

If  she  be  spared  another  day,  there's  hope. — 

Luc.    What  hope  1 

Euph.  The  Imperial  army  — 

Luc.  What  of  it? 

Euph.    It  will  be  here  to-morrow. 

Luc.  Mockery ! 

Euph.    As  surely  as  the  sun  will  rise  to-morrow, 
Werdan  will  bring  relief. 

Luc.  How  know'st  thou  this  1 

Euph.    1  had  a  message  from  him  yesterday. 

Luc.    I  fear  'twill  be  too  late. 

Euph.  Pray  heaven,  it  be  not ! 

Luc.    Alas,  the  indignation  of  the  people 
Will  leave  but  little  to  be  saved  to-morrow. 

Euph.     Go,  hie  thee  to  them,  good  Lucretius  ! 
Tell  them  the  tidings,  and  perchance  it  may 
Turn  the  dark  current  backward. 

Luc.  'Twere  in  vain ! 

Thou  might'st  as  well  roll  back  the  troublous  tide 
Of  swoll'n  Euphrates,    Why  dids't  thou  keep  secret, 


A    TRAGEDY. 


181 


The  news  that  might  have  staid  its  course  at  once  ? 

Euph.    Reasons  of  state  did  prompt  me. 

Luc.  I  will  do 

Thy  bidding ;  but  I  fear  it  is  too  late. 
Come,  go  with  me  —  perchance  thy  countenance 
May  more  avail  than  mine.    Let  us  away. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 

A  public  square  in  Damascus.    Shouts  and  disturbance  around. 
Enter  EUPHRON  and  LUCRETIUS. 

Luc.    What  dost  thou  think  oft  now  ? 

Euph.  Tis  terrible. 

Luc.    They've  razed  St.  Michael's  temple  to  the  ground 
With  sacrilegious  violence.    Look  you  there  ! 
How  the  dark  torrent  swells  and  heaves  along, 
Like  to  the  thundering  avalanche,  that  swings 
Its  ponderous  mass  from  Lebanon,  uptearing 
Gigantic  rocks,  and  forests  of  huge  cedars, 
Crowding  them  into  ruin.     Look  you  there  ! 
How  like  the  very  spirit  of  the  blast, 
Yon  towering  form  of  female  majesty 
Bears  herself  onward.    See,  they  follow  her  ! 
She  sways  their  thousands  as  a  single  one, 
And  that  an  infant !    Look  !  they  come  this  way  ! 


182  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

Marked  ye  that !  marked  ye  that !  St.  Paul,  it  is  Athenia  ! 
Euph.    Now  all  the  saints  support  me,  if  t  be  she  ] 
Luc.    See  1  she  comes  this  way,  the  people  following. 

Let  us  stand  by,  and  mark  what  she  is  doing. 

She  looks  the  priestess  of  the  oracle. 

Enter  ATHENIA,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  people. 

Afh.    Wo  to  Damascus  !  wo  to  the  head  of  Syria ! 

Euph.     [Rushing  forward.']    Athenia !  oh,  my  daughter  ! 
Why  are  you  here,  exposed  to  this  rude  fury  1 

Citizens.  Down  with  the  traitor  Euphron,  he  has  deceived 
the  people  —  kill  him  !  kill  him !  kill  him ! 

Afh.    Kill  him  !  he  is  my  father !  back,  murderers,  back  ! 

Citizens.    He  is  Athenia's  father  —  do  not  hurt  him :  — 
Athenia  feeds  the  poor  —  let  go  her  father, 
But  let  us  kill  Lucretius ! 

Ath.    In  God's  great  name,  I  do  command  forbearance  ! 
There's  blood  enough  upon  your  hands  already. 
Repent,  repent !  the  doom  of  wrath  awaits  ye  ! 
Wo  to  Damascus  !  wo  to  the  head  of  Syria  ! 
.     Citizens.     Wo  to  the  tyrants  who  deceive  the  people  ! 

Luc.    Stay  this  discordant  tumult  for  a  season  ! 

Citizens.    Wo  to  the  tyrants  who  deceive  the  people  J 

Ath.     Wo  to  Damascus  !  wo  to  the  head  of  Syria  ! 

Euph.    Good  people,  hear  me  !  'tis  your  good  I  seek ! 

Citizens.    No  !  no  !  no  !  no  !     Let  us  hear  Lucretius. 

Luc.    Then  listen  to  me,  most  abused,  good  people. 


A   TRAGEDY. 


183 


Citizens.  Let  us  hear  Lucretius  ! — speak  to  us,  Lucretius ! 

Luc.    Why  do  ye  riot  in  your  frenzy  thus  1 
Already  have  ye  slain  your  General ; 
Already  have  ye  razed  our  sacred  altars  ; 
And  spread  such  desolation,  that  our  foes 
Would  stand  aghast,  should  they  possess  the  city, 
To  find  their  own  work  done.    Is  it  despair 
That  drives  you  to  this  fury  ?     Hear  me,  then ; 
The  imperial  army  will  be  here  to-morrow. 

Citizens.    Huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  ! 

Luc.    Yes,  fellow-citizens,  another  day 
Will  see  Damascus  free.    Werdan  has  sent 
A  messenger  to  tell  you  to  have  hope. 

Citizens.    Huzza !  huzza  !  huzza  !  Lead  us  to  battle  ! 

Luc.    Alas  !  there  is  no  General  to  lead  you. 
But  in  the  name  of  all  ye  love  and  worship, 
I  pray  ye  to  disperse,  or  ruin  waits  you  ! 

Afh.    Wo  to  Damascus  !  wo  to  the  head  of  Syria  ! 

Luc.    Peace,  frantic  maiden !     Fellow-citizens, 
I  pray  you  now  disperse  —  If  by  to-morrow, 
The  imperial  army  do  not  succour  you, 
Wreak  on  Lucretius'  head  your  ample  vengeance. 
Will  ye  disperse,  I  say1? 

Citizens.    We  will !  we  will !  come  let  us  all  away  ! 

Luc.    Thanks  for  this  spirit !  let  us  be  united, 
And  Syria  yet  is  free ! 

[  The  people  disperse  and  exeunt. 


ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS. 

In  the  meanwhile  Afhenia  stands  abstractedly,  her  hands  crossed 
on  her  bosom,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upward. 

Euph.  Athenia ! 

Aih.     Who  is  it  calls  the  wretch,  whose  name  I  bear  ? 

Euph.    Thy  father,  my  loved  child,  thy  father. 

Aih.  Well ! 

Euph.    If  thou  hast  any  love  for  Caloiis  — 
Or  reverence  for  me,  I  do  entreat  thee  — 

Aih.     [As  if  waking.] 

Oh  misery !  another  day  of  misery  ! 
Why  have  I  waked  to  count  the  tedious  moments 
Of  one  more  day  of  horror  ! 

[Looking  surprised  at  Euphron. 
Oh  memory  !  —  my  father !  oh  my  father  ! 

[Bursting  into  tears,  and  throwing  herself  on  his  neck. 

Euph.    Blest  image  of  thy  sainted  mother,  come 
Repose  with  me  thy  sorrows.     There  is  hope. 
And  peace,  and  joy,  in  store  for  thee,  my  child. 
Come  thou  poor  stricken  fawn  —  come  to  my  heart  — 
A  father's  love  shall  cherish  thee,  my  child  — 
A  father's  love  shall  wipe  away  thy  tears, 
And  still  thy  troubled  spirit  —  thank  thee,  heaven ! 

Aih.    Oh  father,  there  is  comfort  in  these  tears  ! 
Why  are  we  here,  my  father  1     Good  Lucretius  ! 
Let  us  go  home  —  the  evening  air  is  cold  — 
I  have  been  dreaming  sadly,  —  see  !  'tis  late,  — 
The  pale  moon  shining  o'er  the  orchard  trees, 


A    TRAGEDY.  185 

Lists  to  the  cricket's  hymn.    Let  us  go  home — 

I'm  very  dull  in  spirits,  my  dear  father  ! 

But  I  will  tell  thee  as  we  walk  along, 

Strange  things,  revealed  to  me,  in  heavy  slumber, 

More  unimaginable  and  sublime, 

Than  the  Apocalypse  —  if  it  be  not  sin 

To  say  so. —  Come  my  father — good  Lucretius ! 

[Exeunt. 
(End  of  Act  /F.) 


186  ATHENIA   OF    DAMASCUS. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

Outside  the  watts  of  Damascus. —  The  bell  tolls  twelve. 
Enter  CALOUS,  in  chains. 

Cal     [  Speaking  to  Abdallah  at  the  side.] 

Wait  thee  awhile ;  the  gate  is  here,  hard  by  — 
I  must  see  all  things  ready. 

[Approaching  the  secret  gate. 
The  Prefect  must  be  here,  —  it  was  agreed, 
At  twelve  o'clock  precisely.    Hush  !     Who  's  there  ] 
A  bolt  draws  slowly  and  a  door  opens  in  the  wall  which 
entirely  concealed  it. 

Enter  through  the  door  EUPHRON  muffled. 

Euph.     [Discovering  Calous.]  Caloiis  !  — 

Now  this  is  well ;  —  where  are  your  new-born  friends  1 

Cal.    Hush  !  they  are  here,  close  by. 

Euph.  Then  it  is  finished  !  — 

O,  noble  youth  !  thou  hast  indeed  deserved 
Thy  country's  admiration,  and  Athenia. 


A   TRAGEDY, 


187 


Caloiis,  thy  conduct  has  amazed  the  people, 

As  well  it  might,  —  and  heaped  such  curses  on  us, 

(For  I  am  a  partaker  of  their  hatred,) 

As  never  men  received,    i  almost  fear 

Our  project  has  o'erleaped  itself  and  failed  ; 

For  riot  has  been  ruling  in  our  city, 

O'erswaying  public  order.    Yesterday, 

The  mob  demolished  all  our  granaries, 

To  satisfy  their  fury,  and  tore  down 

St.  Michael's  tower.     We've  had  a  fearful  time  ! 

Cal.    Oh  melancholy  presage  !     Poor  Damascus !  — 
How  is  Athenia  1 

Euph.  Speak  not  of  her  now. 

Away  with  all  despondency,  —  and  turn 
Thy  sad  presages  into  rainbow  hopes. 
I  will  away  and  tell  Athenia  all. 
'Tis  time  the  imperial  army  were  in  hearing. 

Cal.    Do'st  know  that  Kaled  with  one  half  his  army 
Has  gone  to  give  them  battle? 

Euph.  You  surprise  me  ! 

Cal.    'Tis  true ;  —  and  on  the  event,  all  things  depend. 
Werdan  has  twice  the  force  that  Kaled  has. 
Retire  within  the  city — there  is  hope. 
Draw  up  our  forces  in  a  solid  phalanx 
Within  St.  Michael's  square  :  —  should  ill  betide, 
I'll  cut  my  way  to  meet  them.    Fare  thee  well ! 


16 


188 


ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS- 


Euph.    Farewell !     I'll  have  all  ready  —  now  God  speed 

thee !  [Enters  the  gate. 

Cat.     Now  then,  Abdallah,  follow ! 

Enter  ABDALLAH,  with  soldiers. 

Abd-  Thou  art  faithful ! 

Strike  off  his  chains ; — henceforth  we  will  be  friends! 

This  way ! 
[  They  enter  the  gate,  and  the  scene  doses. 


SCENE  II. 

A  street  within  the  city.—  Enter  ABDALLAH  and  CALOUS 
with  soldiers. 

Abd.    Now  is  Damascus  ours  :  —  I  thank  thee,  Allah  ! 
That  thou  hast  granted  me  a  bloodless  triumph. 
Without  thy  aid  through  him,  this  goodly  place 
Had  swam  with  Christian  blood ;  —  far  better  thus. 

Enter  a  Saracen  soldier  in  haste. 
Why  this  haste  ] 

Sold.  Peace  to  the  Prophet's  friend  ! 

Kaled  returns  victorious  1 

Abd.  Thanks,  again ! 

Here  is  a  double  glory  for  our  arms. 

Sold.    The  army  of  Heraclius  is  routed, 


A    TRAGEDY. 


189 


Their  General  slain. 

Cal     [Aside.]      Then  are  we  lost,  indeed  ! 

[Shouts  and  screams  heard  without. 
Now  God  direct  my  efforts ! 

[Springing  at  ABDALLAH  suddenty,  CALOUS 

wrests  his  scimitar  from  his  hand. 
Damascus  !  I  am  with  thee,  once  again, 
To  save  thee,  or  to  perish ! 

Abd.     Strike  down  the  traitor  !  —  Treason  ! 

[The  Saracens  spring  forward,  but  CALOUS  cuts 

his  way  through  them,  and  exit. 
Follow  him  to  the  death  ! 

[Several  chase  after  him. 
Now  curse  this  credulous  heart  for  trusting  him ! 

Enter  KALED, 

Welcome,  thou  sword  of  God !  by  Allah,  welcome  ! 
Kaled !  we've  gained  Damascus  but  to  lose  it, 
Unless  thy  valiant  arm  restore  the  day  ! 

Kaled.    How  now,  Abdallah  !  why  this  great  turmoil  ] 
I  come  to  bring  thee  news  of  victory ; 
Ay,  victory,  Abdallah  !  conquest  too  ! 
The  imperial  army  we  have  hewn  in  pieces  ; 
A  hundred  thousand  Christians  are  destroyed, 
Save  the  poor  remnant  that  escaped  to  carry 
Their  miserable  narrative  to  Corinth. 
[Sarcastically.]     And  thou  hast  won  the  city  in  my  absence  ! 


ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS. 

Aid.    Caloiis  betrayed  it  to  us. 
Kaled.  Fool !  'twas  fhou 

That  wast  betrayed  ;  —  nay,  I  have  heard  it  all. 
So  much  for  thy  great  generalship,  Abdallah  ! 
Know,  then,  I've  stormed  the  western  gate,  even  now 
While  thou  wast  fooling  with  that  Christian  dog. 
Dera  is  making  havoc  like  a  wolf 
That's  broke  into  a  fold.    Onward,  and  join  him  ! 
I'll  hunt  this  Caloiis,  wer't  but  for  his  head 
To  wear  upon  my  spear,  when  I  return 
Triumphant  to  the  Caliph. 

Abd.  1  have  done  wrong — 

But  Abubekir  may  forgive  the  offence. 

Kaled.    This  is  no  time  for  grief; — truce  to  complaining. 
Abdallah  !  I  forgive  thee,  in  the  joy 
That  vanquishes  my  bosom.     Thou  hast  gained 
Merit  for  good  intention.     On  to  battle  ! 
Paradise  !  Paradise  !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  111. 

A  street  in  Damascus: — Greek  soldiers  flying.     C ALDUS 
rallying  them. 

Cal.    Stand  !  as  ye  value  life !  for  God's  sake,  stand ! 
What !  shall  the  glitter  of  a  thousand  moons 


A   TRAGEDY. 


191 


Strike  madness  on  your  reason?     Hear  me,  soldiers  ! 
Death  gapes  for  your  whole  city  —  there  he  stands 
With  appetite  insatiate  as  your  fears ; 
A  moment,  and  'tis  lost  —  a  chance  remains ; 
Look  how  they  hem  us  in  !  by  Christ's  own  blood, 
Let  not  my  heart  burst  with  this  base  confusion ! 
We  must  break  through  a  legion  of  steel  men 
To  ransom  the  lost  city — save  your  daughters! 
Look  at  me,  soldiers  !     1  am  yet  your  General ! 
True  as  this  steel,  dark  with  the  foeman's  gore :  — 
Or  shall  L  go  alone?  — Ignoble  slaves  ! 

Soldiers.    Lead  us  on  !  lead  us  on !      Caloiis  and  victory  ! 

Col.    Oh,  now  ye  feel  the  blood  of  all  your  sires 
Tingling,  as  true  blood  should  !  —  Grasp  ypur  bright  blades 
Once  more  —  brace  every  sinew,  soldiers  !  but  once  more  ! 
And  strike  for  liberty !  [Exit. 

Soldiers  follow,  shouting. 


SCENE  IV. 

St.  Michael's  square.  —  Enter  KALED. 

Kaled.    Now,  by  the  tomb  of  Mecca,  these  foul  dogs 
Are  fang'd  like  desert  lions.  —  My  good  blade 
Has  drunk  more  life  than  a  Sirocco  blast, 
Yet  still  it  thirsteth.    Let  me  breathe  awhile. 
16* 


192 


ATHENIA   OF  DAMASCUS. 


Enter  CALOUS. 

Ha  !  Infidel,  —  1  have  thee,  then,  at  last ! 
Bow  to  the  Prophet !  or,  I'll  cleave  thy  skull 
Which  better  had  been  turbaned.     Yield  thee,  slave  ! 

Cal    Bow  to  the  Cross,  proud  Moslem  !  thou  shalt  find, 
In  this  dark  moment  of  necessity, 
How  faint  a  light  imposture  yields  its  vassals  ! 
Kaled.    Have  at  thee,  Christian  dog  ! 

[  They  fight,  and  exeunt  fighting.  CALOUS  driving 
KALED,  —  while  an  alarm  is  heard,  with  the  cry 
of  "The  standard,  KALED!  the  standard!  rescue! 
rescue!" 

Enter  EUPHRON  and  LUCRETIUS. 

Euph.    This  is  the  place ;  our  friends  are  gathering  fast ; 
The  square  is  thronged  with  most  determined  men  : 
I  never  knew  their  spirit  till  this  hour. 

[Sminds  of battle. 

See  there,  Lucretius  !  how  the  battle  rages  ! 
Look  how  those  two  in  front  flash  at  each  other  ! 
That  Saracen  is  Kaled,  by  my  life ! 
Look  there  !  he's  down,  he's  down  !  victory !  victory ! 
Gods  !  what  a  blow  was  that  the  hero  gave  him  ! 
By  Mars  !  it  is  the  noble  Caloiis  ! 
Caloiis  returned  !  he  never  has  revolted! 
Thou  art  no  traitor !     Onward,  Caloiis  ! 
Damascus  yet  is  free  !  join  him,  Lucretius  ! 


A   TRAGEDY.  193 

Keep  thy  sword  hot,  my  friend  ! 

[Exit  Lucretius. 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

How  now,  what  news  ] 

Mes.    Our  friends  are  every  where  victorious ; 
Kaled  is  dead,  —  and  by  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  Dera  bears  the  hottest  of  the  fight, 
Our  arms  are  doing  prodigies  of  valour  ! 

Euph.    This  is,  indeed,  most  glorious  — tell  me,  now, 
If  thou  canst  tell,  aught  that  concerns  my  daughter ;  — 
I've  searched  even  pented  avenues  to  find  her, 
And  all  in  vain. 

Mes.  I  heard  a  soldier  say, 

Who  brought  despatches  from  the  western  tower, 
That  she  was  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight, 
Like  to  an  Amazonian  maid,  and  leading 
The  common  people  bravely  in  the  war, 
And  with  an  energy  that  ne'er  before 
Was  heard  of  among  women. 

Euph.  Oh,  Athenia ! 

This  last  blow  was  too  much.     Could  I  undo 
The  tangle  in  this  thread  of  misery, 
And  make  it  straight  again,  I'd  give  up  life, 
With  its  immortal  hopes,  to  save  my  daughter. 
Oh,  I  must  save  my  lost  Athenia, 
Or  perish  in  the  effort !  [Exeunt. 


194  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS, 


SCENE  V. 

By  the  Western  Tower. 

[Flourish  of  trumpets. 

Enter  DERA  and  C ALDUS,  fighting.    They  make  several  turns, 
and  CALOTJS  drives  Mm  out. 

Enter  ATHENIA,  armed  with  a  short  sword. 
Afh.     Oh,  my  lost  country  —  wretched,  fallen  Damascus  ! 
How  art  thou  set  a  mark  for  every  shaft 
That  wings  misfortune's  quiver !     Now,  could  1 
Find  out  that  monster,  Kaled,  this  right  arm, 
Nerved  by  thy  power,  holy  Omnipotence  ! 
Would  search  the  tyrant's  heart,  with  this  good  blade, 
And  liberate  my  country.     Caloiis  !  Caloiis  ! 
Oh,  what  a  chance  was  lost  of  being  great, 
When  thou  didst  play  the  traitor  to  our  hopes, 
And  sell  thy  wretched  country ! 

Enter  CALOTJS  almost  breathless. 

Cal  Oh  Athenia! 

Armed ! 

Afh.    Robber  !  thou'st  stol'n  th'  habiliments  of  war 
To  sanctify  thy  murders  !  hence,  and  leave  me  ! 

Cal.    Hast  thou  not  seen  thy  father,  my  Athenia  ! 
Has  he  not  told  thee  of  the  sacrifice  1 


A  TRAGEDY. 


195 


I  am  thy  friend,  Athenia !  thy  own 
True-hearted  Caloiis ! 

Ath.  Thou,  my  Caloiis] 

'Tis  false,  perfidious  varlet !  he,  so  named, 
Was  noble,  generous ;  selfishness,  in  vain 
Searched  his  great  heart  to  find  companionship. 
But  thou  !  —  there's  not  a  reptile  which  the  sun 
Engenders  on  the  slimy  hanks  of  Nile, 
That  is  not  nobler  than  thy  hateful  self ; 
Hence,  recreant,  hence  !  I  loathe  thee  ! 

CaL    What  dire  distemper  so  misshapes  the  truth  ! 
Look  on  me,  dear  Athenia,  'tis  the  same 
True  heart  that  loved  thee  well,  and  still  loves. 
Merciful  heaven ! 

Ath.  Call  not  on  heaven,  thou  traitor  ! 

Hast  thou  not  sacrificed  thy  plighted  faith  ; 
Hast  thou  not  play'd  a  coward's  part  1  —  nay,  start  not : 
Hast  thou  not  sold  thy  country,  for  the  sake 
Of  wreaking  thy  poor  vengeance  1 

CaL  No,  by  heaven  ! 

Ath.    Infamous  liar !  away,  I  will  not  hear  thee  ! 

CaL    Oh  my  own  love  !  most  truly  I  forgive 
This  transport  that  thy  ignorance  has  kindled  ! 
Time  will  explain,  Athenia  ;  —  thy  father 
Will  tell  thee,  my  Athenia !  I  am  true. 
Nay,  turn  not  thus  away  thine  angel  face, 
Thou  shalt  not  leave  me  thus  ;  —  nay  frown  not  on  me  ! 


196  ATHENIA    OF    DAMASCUS. 

For  I  do  claim  thee  my  affianced  bride, 
And  hold  thee  to  my  panting  bosom,  thus ! 

[Embracing  her. 

Ath.    Die,  then,  perfidious  traitor !  for  a  bride 
Take  to  thy  bosom  this  true  steel,  —  it  loves  thee  ! 

[Stabs  him —  Calous  falls. 

Now,  hush  thy  thunder ! 

Cat    Athenia,  1  forgive  thee — it  is  just  — 
I  loved  thee — worshipped  thee  — thou  didst  predict  — 
Farewell!—  [Dies. 

Enter  EUPHRQN. 

Euph.    My  daughter  !  joy  to  thee  !  joy  to  Damascus  ! 
Kaled  is  dead ! 

Ath.    Now,  then,  just  heaven,  I  thank  thee  ! 

Euph.  [Discovering  the  body. 

How,  Caloiis  slain  !  —  oh  terrible  decree  — 
Who  has  done  this  ] 

Ath.  Thy  daughter. 

Euph.  Thou,  Athenia! 

Ath.    Was't  not  done  nobly  1  Brutus,  in  old  Rome, 
Saw  with  prophetic  eye  this  glorious  deed, 
And  emulating  my  self-sacrifice, 
Slew  his  own  son  for  justice  ! 

Euph.  Oh  most  cruel, 

Mad  and  misguided  girl,  how  couldst  thou  do  it ! 


A    TRAGEDY.  197 

Ath.    Wouldst  thou  have  had  the  daughter  of  thy  blood 
Contaminated  by  the  foul  embrace 
Of  a  vile  traitor  ]  I  had  shunn'd  him,  father  ; 
But  he  pursued  me,  and  though  spurn'd,  abhorr'd, 
He  caught  me  as  the  serpent  the  high  priest 
Laocoon ;  and  in  his  hateful  fold, 
Claimed  me  as  his  affianced !  'twas  too  much ! 
Father,  the  spirits  of  a  hundred  sires 
Hissed  me  to  very  madness  —  and  Damascus 
Howl'd  in  my  ears,  Revenge  !  —  the  voice  of  God 
Burst  over  me  in  thunder  —  and  I  slew  him  ! 

Euph.    'Twas  a  rash  deed  !  —oh,  had  I  trusted  heaven, 
Caloiis  had  lived  to  bless  thee ! 

Enter  LUCRETIUS. 

Look,  Lucretius ! 

See  how  the  blood  of  Syria  stains  the  ground. 
Caloiis  is  slain  —  Athenia  is  a  murderess  ! 

Luc.    Mysterious  providence  ! 
Euphron,  1  come  the  herald  of  Despair ! 

Euph.  What  new  calamity  1 

Luc.    Werdan  is  dead  ! 
The  imperial  army  routed — and  the  foe 
Are  masters  of  the  city  ! 

EuPh-  Then  'tis  finished  ;  — 

There  is  no  other  step  to  misery  ! 

Athenia !  it  was  wrong  to  hide  from  thee, 


198  ATHENIA  OF  DAMASCUS. 

The  clue  to  this  great  labyrinth  of  woes  ; 
But  we  have  trusted  in  our  own  weak  power, 
And  heaven,  that  saw  our  great  impurity, 
Has  left  our  weak  designs  to  work  us  ill ! 
'Twas  I  who  urged  on  Caloiis  to  the  deed, 
That  heaven  has  stampt  with  dire  disapprobation  ! 
Aih.    Oh,  misery  !  — 

Euph.  Patience  !  for  the  tale,  though  sad, 

Is  quickly  told. 

Ath.  An>  wo  is  me  ! 

Euph.  Famine, 

As  well  ye  know,  had  joined  the  foe  to  crush  us. 
Exhausted,  spiritless,  and  destitute, 
Our  people  grew  licentious  in  their  rage, 
And  hatched  rebellion.    In  this  trying  hour, 
Kaled,  who  knew  our  weakness,  had  resolved 
On  one  great  effort  —  one  decisive  blow — 
And  yesterday,  Damascus  was  to  have  fallen. 
In  vain  had  we  despatched  our  messengers 
To  Corinth  ;  till  at  last,  but  yesterday, 
An  arrow  thrown  o'er  the  wall,  brought  us  intelligence 
From  Werdan,  that  his  army  would  be  here 
This  hour !  —  Thou  dost  turn  pale,  Athenia  ! 
Ath.    Go  on  ! 

Euph.  The  message  intimated  stratagem. 

There  was  presented  the  alternative 
Of  falling,  or  of  practising  deceit ; 


A    TRAGEDY.  199 


Expediency  pointed  out  the  last. 

An  instrument  was  wanting,  and  I  chose 

Ath.    Oh  no,  thou  could'st  not  do  it  —  say  not,  father, 
Say  not  'twas  Caloiis  ! 

Luc-  Oh,  wond'rous  strange  ! 

Euph.    At  first  his  generous  nature  did  oppose 
The  action,  as  unworthy  —  but  I  urged, 
(Pardon  me,  dearest  daughter,  for  the  truth,) 

Thy  unprotected  innocence,  —  his  love 

And  he  at  last  consented. 

Ath.     [  Turning  to  the  body.]     Murdered  innocent ! 

Euph.    Damascus  was  betrayed  but  seemingly  — 
Th'  imperial  army,  at  this  very  hour, 
Was  to  have  turned  the  sighs  of  this  sad  city 
To  shouts  of  triumph  —  and  the  rich  reward 
For  such  a  noble  deed,  —  thy  hand,  Athenia  ! 

Ath.     Where  are  thy  lightnings  —heaven  ! 

Euph.     [Turning  to  the  body.]     Oh,  noble  nature  ! 
How  hast  thou  been  requited  for  thy  love  ! 

Ath.    Father !  thou'st  done  a  deed  to  damn  thee  ever  ! 
It  was  not  /— .  'twas  thou  that  slew  my  Calous  ! 
Where  sleeps  the  thunder?  vengeance,  thou  art  dead. 
Strike  at  the  murderer !  there  !  have  at  him  !  there  ! 
Not  him  —  not  him  !  it  was  not  he  that  did  it ! 
Rather  strike  here!  — oh,  my  own  murdered  husband! 

[Throws  herself  on  his  body. 


17 


200  ATHENIA  OF  DAMASCUS. 

A  flourish  of  trumpets.  — ABDALLAH  and  DERA  enter  on  loth 
sides  with  soldiers,  and  Jill  the  stage. 

Dera.    Here>  the  Prefect  —  yield  thy  neck,  base  Chris- 
tian! 

Abd.     [Rushing  forward.]     Stand  back  !    by  great  Mo- 

hammed,  stay  thine  arm  ! 

1  am  thy  General,  now— I  do  command  thee  !  — 
Damascus  is  our  own— no  more  of  blood  ! 
[LUCRETIUS  and  EUPHRON  support  ATHENIA,  who  partly  rises. 

Ath.    The  day  of  doom  is  come  !  oh,  horror !  horror  ! 
How  the  sea  waves  with  blood,  and  the  red  torrent 
Surges  and  heaves  with  life  and  death  commingling  ! 
The  graves  give  up  their  dead— and  shrouded  skeletons 
Scream  midst  the  desolation !   hush  —  sh  —  hush  —  sh  — 
Hark!  how  the  damned  are  wailing—  I'll  not  hear  them  ! 

Euph.     [Endeavouring  to  raise  her.]  Athenia ! 

Ath.    Let  us  alone  !  let  us  alone  !  death  shall  not  part  us 

thus. 

They  have  deceived  us,  Caloiis  !  thou  art  mine  ! 
Death  shall  not  part  the  faithful ! 

Euph.  Oh,  my  daughter! 

Ath.     [Rising.]     Look  !  how  the  heavens  open  !  oh,  how 

deep! 

How  bright !  how  bright !  the  angels,  oh,  the  angels  ! 
Hark,  how  they  sing  !  oh,  rapturous  harmony  ! 
See  how  they  bear  him  up  upon  their  wings, 


A    TRAGEDJT.  201 

And  circle  him  with  glory  !  —  stay  !  oh,  stay  ! 
Blest  seraphim  !  —  Athenia  would  go  with  you  ! 

[Her  head  droops,  and  she  falls. 
[Raising  herself,  with  a  smile,  looking  upward.} 
Father  !  receive  my  spirit ! 

[Dies. 
They  bend  mournfully  around  Tier,  while  the  curtain  falls. 


LANCASTER 


17* 


LANCASTER. 


THE  queen  of  May  has  bound  her  virgin  brow, 
And  hung  with  blossoms  every  fruit-tree  bough  ; 
The  sweet  Southwest,  among  the  early  flowers, 
Whispers  the  coming  of  delighted  hours, 
While  birds  within  the  heaping  foliage,  sing 
Their  music- welcome  to  returning  Spring. 

Oh,  Nature  !  loveliest  in  thy  green  attire — 
Dear  mother  of  the  passion-kindling  lyre ; 
Thou,  who  in  early  days,  upled'st  me  where 
The  mountains  freeze  above  the  Summer  air ; 
Or  lured'st  my  wandering  way  beside  the  streams, 
To  watch  the  bubbles  as  they  mocked  my  dreams, 
Lead  me  again  thy  flowery  paths  among, 
To  sing  of  native  scenes  as  yet  unsung ! 


206 


LANCASTER. 


Dear  Lancaster  !  thy  fond  remembrance  brings 
Thoughts,  like  the  music  of  ^Eolian  strings, 
When  the  hushed  wind  breathes  only  as  it  sleeps, 
While  tearful  Love  his  anxious  vigil  keeps :  — 
When  pressed  with  grief,  or  sated  with  the  show, 
That  Pleasure's  pageant  offers  here  below, 
Midst  scenes  of  heartless  mirth  or  joyless  glee, 
How  oft  my  aching  heart  has  turned  to  thee, 
And  lived  again,  in  memory's  sweet  recess, 
The  innocence  of  youthful  happiness  1 

In  life's  dull  dream,  when  want  of  sordid  gain 
Clings  to  our  being  with  its  cankering  chain, 
When  lofty  thoughts  are  cramped  to  stoop  below 
The  vile,  rank  weeds  that  in  their  pathway  grow, 
Who  would  not  turn  amidst  the  darkened  scene, 
To  memoried  spots  where  sunbeams  intervene  ; 
And  dwell  with  fondness  on  the  joyous  hours, 
When  youth  built  up  his  pleasure-dome  of  flowers  1 

Now,  while  the  music  of  the  feathered  choir 
Rings  where  the  sheltering  blossoms  wake  desire, 
When  dew-eyed  Love  looks  tenderness,  and  speaks 
A  silent  language  with  his  mantling  cheeks  ; 
1  think  of  those  delicious  moments  past, 
Which  joyless  age  shall  dream  of  to  the  last  ; 
As  now,  though  far  removed,  the  Muse  would  tell, 
Though  few  may  listen,  what  she  loved  so  well. 


LANCASTER. 

Dear  hours  of  childhood,  youth's  propitious  spring, 
When  Time  fanned  only  roses  with  his  wing, 
When  dreams,  that  mock  reality,  could  move 
To  yield  an  endless  holiday  to  Love, 
How  do  ye  crowd  upon  my  fevered  brain, 
And  in  imagination,  live  again  ! 

Lo !  I  am  with  you  now,  the  sloping  green, 
Of  many  a  sunny  hill  is  freshly  seen ; 
Once  more  the  purple  clover  bends  to  meet, 
And  shower  the  dew  drops  on  their  pilgrim's  feet ; 
Once  more  he  breathes  the  fragrance  of  your  fields, 
Once  more  the  orchard  tree  its  harvest  yields, 
Again  he  hails  the  morning  from  your  hills, 
And  drinks  the  cooling  water  of  your  rills, 
While  with  a  heart  subdued,  he  feels  the  power 
Of  every  humble  shrub  and  modest  flower. 

Oh  thou  who  journeyest  through  that  Eden  clime, 
Winding  thy  devious  way  to  cheat  the  time, 
Delightful  Nashaway !  beside  thy  stream, 
Fain  would  I  paint  thy  beauties  as  they  gleam. 
Eccentric  river  !  poet  of  the  woods  ! 
Where,  in  thy  far  secluded  solitudes, 
The  wood-nymphs  sport  and  naiads  plash  thy  wave, 
With  charms  more  sweet  than  ever  fancy  gave  ; 
How  oft  with  Mantua's  bard,  from  school  let  free, 
I've  conn'd  the  silver  lines  that  flow  like  thee, 


207 


208  LANCASTER. 

Couch'd  on  thy  emerald  banks,  at  full  length  laid, 

Where  classic  elms  grew  lavish  of  their  shade, 

Or  indolently  listened,  while  the  throng 

Of  idler  beings  woke  their  Summer  song  ; 

Or  with  rude  angling  gear,  outwatched  the  Sun, 

Comparing  mine,  to  deeds  by  Walton  done. 

Far  down  the  silent  stream,  where  arching  trees 
Bend  their  green  boughs  so  gently  to  the  breeze, 
One  live,  broad  mass  of  molten  crystal  lies, 
Clasping  the  mirrored  beauties  of  the  skies  ! 
Look,  how  the  sunshine  breaks  upon  the  plains  ! 
So  the  deep  blush  their  flattered  glory  stains. 

Romantic  river !  on  thy  quiet  breast, 
While  flashed  the  salmon  with  his  lightning  crest, 
Not  long  ago,  the  Indian's  thin  canoe 
Skimmed  lightly  as  the  shadow  which  it  threw  ; 
Not  long  ago,  beside  thy  banks  of  green, 
The  night-fire  blazed  and  spread  its  dismal  sheen. 

Thou  peaceful  Valley  !  when  i  think  how  fair 
Thy  various  beauty  shines,  beyond  compare, 
I  cannot  choose  but  own  the  Power  that  gave 
Amidst  thy  woes  a  helping  hand  to  save, 
When  o'er  thy  hills  the  savage  war-whoop  came, 
And  desolation  raised  its  funeral  flame  ! 


LANCASTER.  209 

'Tis  night !  the  stars  are  kindled  in  the  sky, 
And  hunger  wakes  the  famished  she-wolf's  cry, 
While  o'er  the  crusted  snow,  the  careful  tread 
Betrays  the  heart  whose  pulses  throb  with  dread ; 
Yon  flickering  light,  kind  beacon  of  repose  ! 
The  weary  wanderer's  homely  dwelling  shows, 
Where  by  the  blazing  fire,  his  bosom's  joy, 
Holds  to  her  heart  a  slumbering  infant  boy  ; 
While  every  sound  her  anxious  bosom  moves, 
She  starts  and  listens  for  the  one  she  loves  ;  — 
Hark  !  was 't  the  night-bird's  cry  that  met  her  ear, 
Curdling  the  blood  that  thickens  with  cold  fear?  — 
"Again,  oh  God  !  that  voice,  —  'tis  hib  !  'tis  his  !" 
She  hears  the  death-shriek  and  the  arrow's  whiz, 
When  as  she  turns,  she  sees  the  bursting  door 
Roll  her  dead  husband  bleeding  on  the  floor. 

% "', 

Loud  as  the  burst  of  sudden  thunder,  rose 
The  mad'ning  war-cry  of  the  ambushed  foes  ; 
Startling  in  sleep,  the  dreamless  infant  wakes, 
Like  morning's  smile  when  daylight's  slumber  breaks  ; 
"  For  mercy !  spare  my  child,  forbear  the  blow  !" 
In  vain ;  —  the  warm  blood  crimsons  on  the  snow. 

O'er  the  cold  earth  the  captive  mother  sighs, 
Her  ears  still  tortured  by  her  infant's  cries  ; 
She  cannot  weep,  but  deep  resolve,  unmoved, 
Plots  vengeance  for  the  victims  so  be'oved  j 


210  LANCASTER. 

Lo  !  by  their  fire,  the  glutted  warriors  lie, 

Locked  in  the  deathsleep  of  ebriety, 

When  from  her  bed  of  snow,  whence  slumber  flew, 

The  frenzied  woman  rose  the  deed  to  do;  — 

Firmly  beside  the  senseless  men  of  blood, 

With  vengeful  arm,  the  wretched  mother  stood ; 

She  hears  her  groaning,  dying  lord  expire, 

Her  woman's  heart  nerves  up  with  mad'ning  fire"; 

She  sees  her  infant  dashed  against  the  tree,  — 

Tis  done !  —  the  red  men  sleep  eternally. 

Such  were  thy  wrongs,  sweet  Lancaster !  but  now, 
No  spot  so  peaceful  and  serene  as  thou  ; 
Thy  hills  and  fields  in  chequered  richness  stand> 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  the  land. 

From  calm  repose,  while  glowed  the  eastern  sky, 
And  the  fresh  breeze  went  fraught  with  fragrance  by, 
Waked  by  the  noisy  woodbird  free  from  care, 
What  joy  was  mine  to  drink  the  morning  air  ! 
Not  all  the  bliss  maturer  life  can  bring, 
When  ripened  manhood  soars  with  strengthened  wing. 
Not  all  the  rapture  fancy  ever  wove, 
Nor  less  than  that  which  springs  from  mutual  love, 
Could  challenge  mine,  when  to  the  ravished  sense, 
The  sunrise  painted  God's  magnificence  ! 
George-hill,  thou  pride  of  Nashaway,  for  thee,  — 
Thyself  the  garden  of  fertility, — 


LANCASTER.  211 

Nature  has  hung  a  picture  to  the  eye, 

Where  Beauty  smiles  at  sombre  Majesty. 

The  river  winding  in  its  course  below, 

Through  fertile  fields  where  yellowing  harvests  grow, 

The  bowering  elms  that  so  majestic  grew, 

A  green  arcade  for  waves  to  wander  through  ; 

The  deep  broad  valley,  where  the  new  mown  hay 

Loads  the  fresh  breezes  of  the  rising  day, 

And,  distant  far,  Wachusett's  towering  height, 

Blue  in  the  ling'ring  shadows  of  the  night, 

Have  power  to  move  the  sternest  heart  to  love, 

That  Nature's  loveliness  could  ever  move. 

Ye  who  can  slumber  when  the  starlight  fades, 
And  clouds  break  purpling  through  the  eastern  shades, 
Whose  care-worn  spirits  cannot  wake  at  morn, 
To  lead  your  buoyant  footsteps  o'er  the  lawn, 
Can  never  know  what  joy  the  ravished  sense, 
Feels  in  that  moment's  sacred  influence. 
I  will  not  ask  the  meed  of  fortune's  smile, 
The  flatterer's  praise  that  masks  his  heart  of  guile, 
So  I  can  walk  beneath  the  ample  sky, 
And  hear  the  bird's  discordant  melody, 
And  see  reviving  Spring,  and  Summer's  gloom, 
And  Autumn  bending  o'er  his  icy  tomb, 
And  hoary  Winter  pile  his  snowy  drifts  ; 
For  these  to  me  are  Fortune's  highest  gifts ; 
18 


212  LANCASTER. 

And  I  have  found  in  poor  neglected  flowers, 
Companionship  for  many  weary  hours ; 
And  high  above  the  mountain's  crest  of  snow, 
Communed  with  storm-clouds  in  their  wrath  below  ; 
And  where  the  vault  of  heaven,  from  some  vast  height 
Grew  black,  as  fell  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
Where  the  stars  seem  to  come  to  you,  I've  wooed 
The  grandeur  of  the  fearful  solitude. 
From  such  communion,  feelings  often  rise, 
To  guard  the  heart  midst  life's  perplexities, 
Lighting  a  heaven  within,  whose  deep  felt  joy 
Compensates  well,  for  Sorrow's  dark  alloy. 
Then,  though  the  worldly  chide,  and  wealth  deny, 
And  passion  conquer  where  it  fain  would  fly, 
Though  friends  you  love  betray,  while  these  are  left, 
The  heart  can  never  wholly  be  bereft. 

Hard  by  yon  giant  elm,  whose  branches  spread 
A  rustling  robe  of  leaves  above  your  head ; 
Where  weary  travellers,  from  noonday  heat, 
Beneath  the  hospitable  shade  retreat, 
The  school-house  met  the  stranger's  busy  eye, 
Who  turned  to  gaze  again,  he  knew  not  why. 
Thrice  lovely  spot !  where,  in  the  classic  spring, 
My  young  ambition  dipped  her  fevered  wing, 
And  drank  unseen  the  vision  and  the  fire 
That  break  with  quenchless  glory  from  the  lyre  ! 


LANCASTER.  213 

Amidst  thy  wealth  of  Art,  fair  Italy  ! 
While  Genius  warms  beneath  thy  cloudless  sky, 
As  o'er  the  waking  marble's  polished  mould, 
The  Sculptor  breathes  Pygmalion's  prayer  of  old, 
His  heart  shall  send  a  frequent  sigh  to  rove, 
A  pilgrim  to  the  birthplace  of  his  love ! 

And  can  I  e'er  forget  the  hallowed  spot, 
Whence  springs  a  charm  that  may  not  be  forgot ; 
Where  in  a  grove  of  elm  and  sycamore, 
The  Pastor  showed  his  hospitable  door, 
And  kindness  shone  so  constantly  to  bless 
That  sweet  abode  of  peace  and  happiness  ? 

The  oaken  bucket  —  where  I  stooped  to  drink 
The  crystal  water,  trembling  at  the  brink, 
Which  through  the  solid  rock  in  coldness  flowed, 
While  creaked  the  pond'rous  lever  with  its  load  ; 
The  dairy  —  where  so  many  moments  flew, 
With  half  the  dainties  of  the  soil  in  view  ; 
Where  the  broad  pans  spread  out  the  milk-maid's  care, 
To  feed  the  busy  churn  that  laboured  there  ; 
The  garden — where  such  neatness  met  the  eye, 
A  stranger  could  not  pass  unheeding  by  ; 
The  orchard  —  and  the  yellow-mantled  fields, 
Each  in  its  turn  some  dear  remembrance  yields. 


214  LANCASTER. 

Ye  who  can  mingle  with  the  glittering  crowd, 
Where  Mammon  struts  in  rival  splendour  proud  ; 
Who  pass  your  days  in  heartless  fashion's  round, 
And  bow  with  hatred,  where  ye  fear  to  wound  ; 
Away  !  no  flatterer's  voice,  nor  coward's  sneer, 
Can  find  a  welcome,  or  an  altar  here. 
But  ye  who  look  beyond  the  common  ken, 
Self-unexalted  when  ye  judge  of  men, 
Who,  conscious  of  defects,  can  hurry  by 
Faults  that  lay  claim  upon  'your  charity  ; 
Who  feel  that  thrilling  vision  of  the  soul, 
Which  looks  through  faith  beyond  an  earthly  goal, 
And  will  not  yet  refuse  the  homely  care, 
Which  every  being  shares,  or  ought  to  share  ; 
Approach  !  the  home  of  Goodness  is  your  own, 
And  "such  as  ye  are  worthy,  such  alone. 

When  Silence  hung  upon  the  Sabbath's  smile, 
And  noiseless  footsteps  paced  the  sacred  aisle, 
When  hearts  united  woke  the  suppliant  lay, 
And  happy  faces  blessed  the  holy  day  ; 
Oh  Nature  !  could  thy  worshipper  have  owned 
Such  joy,  as  then  upon  his  bosom  throned ; 
x  When  feelings,  even  as  the  printless  snow, 
Were  harmless,  guileless  as  a  child  can  know ; 
Or,  if  they  swerved  from  right,  were  pliant  still, 
To  follow  Virtue  from  the  path  of  ill  1 


LANCASTER.  215 

No  !  when  the  morning's  old,  the  mist  will  rise 
To  cloud  the  fairest  vision  of  our  eyes ; 
As  hopes  too  brightly  formed  in  rainbow  dyes, 
A  moment  charm  —  then  vanish  in  the  skies  ! 

Sweet  hour  of  holy  rest,  to  mortals  given, 
To  paint  with  love  the  fairest  way  to  Heaven  ; 
When  from  the  sacred  book  instruction  came 
With  fervid  eloquence  and  kindling  flame. 
No  mystic  rites  were  there  ;  to  God  alone, 
Went  up  the  grateful  heart  before  his  throne, 
While  solemn  anthems  from  the  organ  poured 
Thanksgiving  to  the  high  and  only  Lord. 

Lo !  where  yon  cottage  whitens  through  the  green, 
The  loveliest  feature  of  a  matchless  scene  ; 
Beneath  its  shading  elm,  with  pious  fear, 
An  aged  mother  draws  her  children  near  ; 
While  from  the  Holy  Word  with  earnest  air, 
She  teaches  them  the  privilege  of  prayer. 
Look  !  how  their  infant  eyes  with  rapture  speak  ; 
Mark  the  flushed  lily  on  the  dimpled  cheek, 
Their  hearts  are  filled  with  gratitude  and  love,, 
Their  hopes  are  centred  in  a  world  above, 
Where  in  a  choir  of  angels,  faith  portrays 
The  loved,  departed  father  of  their  days. 


18* 


216  LANCASTER. 

Beside  yon  grassless  mound,  a  mourner  kneels, 
There  gush  no  tears  to  sooth  the  pang  he  feels ; 
His  loved,  his  lost,  lies  coffined  in  the  sod, 
Whose  soul  has  found  a  dwelling-place  with  God  ! 
Though  pressed  with  anguish,  mild  religion  shows 
His  aching  heart  a  balm  for  all  its  woes  ; 
And  hope  smiles  upward,  where  his  love  shall  find 
A  union  in  eternity  of  mind  ! 

Turn  there  your  eyes,  ye  cold,  malignant  crew, 
Whose  vile  ambition  dims  your  reason's  view, 
Ye  faithless  ones,  who  preach  religion  vain, 
And  childlike,  chase  the  phantoms  of  your  brain ; 
Think  not  to  crush  the  heart  whose  truth  has  sealed 
Its  confidence  in  heavenly  love  revealed. 
Let  not  the  atheist  deem  that  Fate  decrees 
The  lot  of  man  to  misery  or  ease, 
While  to  the  contrite  spirit,  faith  is  given, 
To  find  a  hope  on  earth,  a  rest  in  Heaven. 

Unrivalled  Nashaway !  where  the  willows  throw 
Their  frosted  beauty  on  thy  path  below, 
Beneath  the  verdant  drapery  of  the  trees, 
Luxuriant  Fancy  woos  the  sighing  breeze. 
The  redbreast  singing  where  the  fruit-tree  weaves 
Its  silken  canopy  of  mulb'ry  leaves  ; 
Enamelled  fields  of  green,  where  herding  kine 
Crop  the  wet  grass,  or  in  the  shade  recline  ; 


LANCASTER.  217 

The  tapping  woodbird,  and  the  minstrel  bee, 
The  squirrel  racing  on  his  moss-grown  tree, 
With  crowds  of  pleasant  dreams,  demand  in  vain 
Creative  thought  to  give  them  life  again. 

I  turn  where  glancing  down,  the  eye  surveys 
Art  building  up  the  wreck  of  other  days  ; 
For  graves  of  silent  tribes  upheave  the  sod, 
And  Science  smiles  where  savage  Philip  trod ; 
Where  winged  the  poisoned  shaft  along  the  skies, 
The  hammer  rings,  the  noisy  shuttle  flies  ; 
Impervious  forests  bow  before  the  blade, 
And  fields  rise  up  in  yellow  robes  arrayed. 
No  lordly  palace  nor  imperial  seat, 
Grasps  the  glad  soil  where  freemen  plant  their  feet ; 
No  ruined  castle  here,  with  ivy  waves, 
To  make  us  blush  for  ancestry  of  slaves  ; 
But  lo  !  unnumbered  dwellings  meet  the  eye, 
Where  men  lie  down  in  native  majesty : 
The  morning  birds  spring  from  their  leafy  bed, 
As  the  stern  ploughman  quits  his  happy  shed  ; 
His  arm  is  steeled  to  toil  —  his  heart  to  bear 
The  robe  of  pain,  that  mortals  always  wear ; 
Though  wealth  may  never  come,  a  plenteous  board 
Smiles  at  the  pampered  rich  man's  joyless  hoard  ; 
True,  when  among  his  sires,  no  gilded  heir 
Shall  play  the  fool,  and  damn  himself  to  care, 


218  LANCASTER. 

But  Industry  and  Knowledge  lead  the  way, 
Where  Independence  braves  the  roughest  day. 

Nurse  of  my  country's  infancy,  her  stay 
In  youthful  trials  and  in  danger's  day ; 
Diffusive  Education  !  'tis  to  thee, 
She  owes  her  mountain-breath  of  Liberty  ; 
To  thee  she  looks,  through  time's  illusive  gloom, 
To  light  her  path,  and  shield  her  from  the  tomb  ; 
Beneath  thine  JEgis,  tyranny  shall  fail, 
Before  thy  frown  the  traitor's  heart  shall  quail ; 
Ambitious  foes  to  liberty  may  wear 
A  patriot  mask,  to  compass  what  they  dare, 
And  sting  the  thoughtless  nation,  while  they  smile 
Benignantly  and  modestly  the  while  ; 
But  thou  shalt  rend  the  virtuous-seeming  guise, 
And  guard  her  from  the  worst  of  enemies. 
Eternal  power  !  whose  tempted  thunder  sleeps, 
While  heaven-eyed  mercy  turns  away  and  weeps ; 
Thou  who  didst  lead  our  fathers  where  to  send 
Their  free  devotions  to  their  God  and  friend ; 
Thou  who  hast  swept  a  wilderness  away, 
That  men  may  walk  in  freedom's  cloudless  day  j 
Guard  well  their  trust,  lest  impious  faction  dare 
Unlock  the  chain  that  binds  our  birthright  fair ; 
That  private  views  to  public  good  may  yield, 
And  honest  men  stand  fearless  in  the  field  I 


LANCASTER.  219 

Once  more  I  turn  to  thee,  fair  Nashaway ! 
The  farewell  tribute  of  my  humble  lay  ; 
The  time  may  come,  when  lofty  notes  shall  bear 
Thy  peerless  beauty  to  the  gladdened  air ; 
Now,  to  the  lyre  no  daring  hand  aspires, 
And  rust  grows  cankering  on  its  tuneless  wires. 

Our  lays  are  like  the  fitful  streams  that  flow 
From  careless  birds,  that  carol  as  they  go  ; 
Content,  beneath  the  mountain  top  to  sing, 
And  only  touch  Castalia  with  a  wing. 

[1828. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


KATY-DID. 


A  FAIRY  TALE, 


THE  rainbow  that  hung  o'er  the  dropping  cloud 
Has  lost  the  colours  that  decked  its  fold ; 
The  sun  is  wrapped  in  his  ocean  shroud, 
A  mantle  of  green  with  an  edge  of  gold ; 
The  foliage  drops  with  dew  and  shower, 
The  lilies  are  silently  bending  low, 
And  the  garden-rose,  in  her  fragrant  bower, 
Rustles  her  leaves  with  a  thrilling  glow, 
And  dreams  of  the  bee  and  her  rifled  treasure ; 
'Tis  the  hour  of  dance  and  the  minstrel's  measure. 
19 


224  KATY-DID. 

II. 

There  is  music  abroad,  but  it  is  not  heard, 
The  stars  are  singing  their  vesper  hymn, 
There  is  melody  breathing  from  every  limb, 
Where  the  fruit-tree  shelters  the  slumb'ring  bird  ; 
For  the  fairy-queen's  heralds  have  called  together 
The  sylphs  and  fays  from  their  million  spheres, 
And  every  fairy  the  herald  hears, 
And  hastens  away  over  moss  and  heather, 
To  the  garden  of  bliss  and  of  maidens'  tears. 

111. 

'Twas  midsummer's  eve,  and  the  stars  were  dim, 
For  the  fays  had  stolen  their  lamps  away 
To  fill  the  moon,  till  her  silver  brim 
Ran  over  with  light,  in  their  jocund  play ; 
And  over  the  earth,  wherever  it  went, 
It  spread  like  a  smile  upon  beauty's  lips, 
When  fancy-free,  and  no  clouds  eclipse 
Her  bosom's  unmarbled  firmament. 
And  heavenly  sylphs  from  the  milky  way, 
With  spangled  garments  of  snowy  whiteness, 
Flooded  the  skies  with  their  brilliant  eyes, 
And  dashed  the  moon  with  a  clearer  brightness. 
For  all  of  heaven  and  all  of  earth, 
Of  the  holy  sylphs  and  the  potent  fays, 


KATY-DID.  225 

Were  called  to  revel  with  dance  and  mirth, 
On  midsummer's  eve  in  the  festal  blaze. 

IV. 

With  the  glad  hurra  and  the  loud  halloo, 
They  heard  the  whip-poor-will's  evening  cry, 
And  thousands  were  sporting  with  drops  of  dew, 
They  chased  as  they  fell  from  the  evening  sky ; 
Some  dancing  the  rope  which  the  spider  threw 
From  bush  to  bush  and  from  tree  to  tree, 
Or  riding  the  murmuring  honey-bee  : 
For  they  stormed  the  hive  where  the  workers  slept, 
In  festoons  from  their  waxen  walls, 
And  laughed  aloud  as  the  queen-bee  wept 
At  their  mischievous  pranks  in  her  luscious  halls  ; 
They  sipped  the  sweets  from  her  choicest  cells, 
And  pilfered  the  bee-bread  garnered  there, 
And  when  they  had  emptied  the  nectar  wells, 
They  whipped  the  drones  till  their  bones  were  bare  ; 
But  they  promised,  before  the  morning's  sun, 
To  make  amends  for  the  mischief  done. 

V. 

Then  one  sprang  up  on  the  queen-bee's  back, 
And  spurred  her  sides  with  a  nettle  sting, 
And  away  she  went  with  a  bounding  spring, 
With  a  myriad  tribe  in  her  airy  track, 


226 


KATY-DID. 


Each  with  a  fay  and  a  honey  sack. 

'Twas  a  restless  time  to  the  weary  bees, 

And  every  insect  that  builds  by  day, 

Whether  it  lived  in  the  thick-leafed  trees, 

Or  couched  in  the  moss  where  the  cold  snake  lay ; 

For  some  ran  down  in  the  red  ant's  cave, 

And  beat  their  slaves  and  milk'd  their  kine, 

Then  rang'd  themselves  with  their  fair  and  brave, 

And  ate  their  viands  and  drank  their  wine  ; 

While  many  a  jest  rang  out  aloud, 

About  the  giants  that  roam  the  earth, 

Their  certain  death  and  their  helpless  birth.  — 

The  red  ant's  palace  was  in  a  shroud  ! 

VI. 

Others  have  gathered  a  fragrant  store 
Of  the  damask  rose,  which  they  quickly  bring 
To  the  Teasel's  dewy  reservoir, 
And  with  feathers  brushed  from  the  butterfly's  wing, 
They  skim  the  atter  that  floats  above, 
Each  drop  a  gift  to  a  fairy  love. 
Some  are  decked  out  in  Violet  leaves, 
Powdered  all  over  with  dust  of  Fern, 
Their  mantle  the  web  which  the  spider  weaves, 
With  batons  they  stole  from  the  Lily's  urn ; 
And  they  march  to  the  sound  of  the  brown  ant's  drum, 
Musquito's  trumpet,  and  beetle's  hum, 


KATY-DID. 

Rousing  the  leaves  from  their  vesper  fold, 

And  waking  the  slumbering  Marygold. 

Now  the  bat,  from  his  hiding  hole, 

Wheels  through  the  air  on  fluttering  pinions, 

The  beetle  soars  from  his  laboured  mole, 

And  Paddock  calls,  in  drowsy  dole, 

That  the  fairy-queen  comes  to  her  earth's  dominions. 

VII. 

And  first,  in  garments  of  living  green, 
Like  sea- weed  heaving  to  reach  the  shore, 
A  numberless  crowd  of  elves  are  seen, 
On  fire -flies  riding,  like  knights  of  yore  ; 
Briar-stings  were  the  spears  they  bore, 
Their  bridles  the  thatch  of  the  silk-worm's  shed, 
Their  fleecy  plumes  from  the  white-moth's  wing, 
And  down  they  came  where  the  moon-beam  spread 
Its  shadowless  light  on  a  Violet  bed, 
Gayly  around  it  hovering. 

VIII. 

"  The  queen !  the  queen  !"  —  and  a  band  appeared 
In  courtly  dresses  of  richest  dyes  ; 
While  a  troop  of  fays  on  the  moon-beam's  neared, 
Clad  in  a  thousand  fantasies  : 
Some  in  the  Protea's  golden  leaves, 
19* 


227 


K  A  T  Y  -  D  I D . 

That  waved  and  dashed  like  a  flaming  sea  ; 

Others  were  dressed  from  the  Silver-tree, 

Fastened  with  threads  the  silk-worm  weaves  ; 

The  Hyacinth  came  in  a  virgin  dress, 

The  Jonquil  brought  her  fragrant  flower, 

And  sweet  Narcissus,  for  the  hour, 

Gave  up  his  mirrored  loveliness. 

The  broad  Carnation  spread  her  leaf, 

And  Amyrillis,  with  a  bell 

Brim-full  of  fragrance,  deigned  to  swell 

The  arbour  of  the  fairy-chief. 

A  Nautilus  shell  was  her  palanquin,. 

And  there  the  fair  Titania  sat, 

Fairer  than  all  who  are  formed  to  win, 

And  still  unwon,  to  be  wondered  at ; 

The  car  was  lashed  to  a  vampyre's  back, 

That  was  doomed  to  atone  for  a  deed  of  blood, 

To  skim  the  air  and  to  swim  the  flood, 

And  bear  all  day  the  sun-beam's  rack, 

To  fly  no  more  in  the  moon's  free  ray, 

Till  the  crime  of  murder  were  washed  away. 

IX. 

A  humming-bird  slept  on  a  woodbine  flower, 
Drunk  with  the  nectar  it  sipped  all  day, 
And  its  heaving  bosom  had  only  power 
To  make  its  golden  plumage  play 


K  A  T  Y  -  D  I  D .  229 

Enough  to  dazzle  an  elf  or  fay. 

But  the  Queen  passed  by  in  her  robes  of  state, 

And  sent  the  Fire-fly  on  before, 

For  the  woodbine  crept  by  a  miser's  door, 

Whose  touch  had  blighted  a  leaf  of  late. 

A  sweetbriar  grew  by  a  lattice  near, 

Where  oft  a  beautiful  maiden  sung ; 

She  had  given  away  with  virgin  fear, 

A  budding  branch  no  bee  had  stung  ; 

And  many  a  lay  had  her  poet  sung, 

And  many  a  wish  had  he  breathed  to  her ;  — 

The  place  was  sacred  to  love  forever ; 

Though  both  grew  cold  in  the  world's  chill  stir, 

And  forced  the  links  of  their  love  to  sever. 

X. 

By  the  fire-fly's  light,  where  the  insect  flew, 
Titania  knew  where  her  throne  should  be  ; 
'Twas  where  the  Haliotis  threw 
Its  sparkling  rainbow-canopy. 
And  some  brought  honey  for  her  to  sip, 
In  cups  where  the  bee  had  never  flown, 
With  urns  of  dew  for  her  royal  lip, 
Which  even  the  shrimp  had  never  known. 
They  broke  the  sleep  of  the  Water-lilies, 
For  wealth  of  fragrance  to  please  their  queen  ; 


230 


KATY-DID. 


The  Moss-rose  and  the  Amyrillis, 
Verbena  and  the  Eglantine. 

XI. 

And  merrily  now  had  the  dance  begun 
in  circles  of  light  on  the  close-cut  green, 
The  grass  blades  each  like  a  living  sun, 
Blending  their  lights  in  a  brilliant  sheen, 
Like  breaking  waves  in  the  setting  sun, 
Or  golden  clouds  when  the  day  is  done  : 
And  they  moved  like  teints  on  the  flowery  sea 
When  a  hurricane  sweeps  o'er  a  prairie. 

XII. 

Hark !  hark !  and  the  tingling  blood 
Suddenly  startles  the  frighted  fays, 
And  they  rush  to  their  queen  in  a  wild  amaze  ; 
For  distant  shrieks  and  fearful  sounds  — 
Then  stillness  —  and  now  a  piercing  cry, 
An  earthquake  shudder  of  something  nigh, 
Unknown,  yet  felt  in  the  pulse's  bounds — 
A  dread  like  that  which  borders  madness, 
Far  darker  than  the  depths  of  sadness : 
And  why  is  this,  that  a  sudden  gleam 
Throws  into  shade  the  moon's  bright  beam  ? 
There's  a  rush  like  the  bending  of  ripen'd  maize, 
A  sound  like  the  wind  in  November  days, 


KATY-DID. 

When  the  blast  screams  through  the  skeleton  trees, 

And  the  dry  leaves  whirl  in  the  eddying  breeze  ; 

There's  a  tramp  of  steeds  in  the  forest  near, 

And  this  is  the  cause  of  the  Elfin's  fear ;  — 

Well  may  they  fear,  for  a  foe  is  come, 

That  moves  to  the  beat  of  the  muffled  drum  : 

A  band  of  spirits  that  hate  the  light, 

And  roam  like  the  gouls  to  feast  at  night ; 

To  batten  on  food  which  the  jaws  of  death, 

When  the  blood  dries  up,  have  to  reptiles  left ; 

To  howl  their  delight  when  a  good  man  errs, 

And  flatter  the  bad  to  their  sepulchres. 

They  come  like  a  cloud  o'er  a  summer  sky, 

All  mirth  is  hush'd,  and  the  dance  gone  by  ; 

On  a  moccasin  snake,  which  that  day  had  stung 

An  infant,  that  slept  while  its  mother  sung,. 

Came  the  king  of  the  spirits,  and  round  him  crowds 

Decked  out  in  shreds  of  dead  men's  shrouds, 

In  every  ghastly  shape  that  gleams, 

Before  the  eye  in  fever-dreams, 

And  myriad  others  like  vapour  dense, 

Or  the  atoms  that  form  a  pestilence. 

XIII. 

Full  of  amaze  was  the  fairy  queen  — 
But  soon  she  rallied  her  princely  mien, 


231 


232  KATY-DID. 

And  waving  her  sceptre  around  the  throng, 
The  herald  smote  on  the  sounding  gong, 
And  a  million  spears  in  a  moment  shone, 
Like  sunbeams  all  around  her  throne. 

XIV. 

"Why  come  ye  here,  unhallow'd  crew? 
Have  ye  not  enough  in  the  world  to  do  1 
Is  there  not  enough  of  guilt  in  men  ] 
Why  come  ye  here  from  your  loathsome  den  ? 
By  the  moonbeam's  ray,  which  ye  dare  eclipse, 
By  the  light  that  spreads  o'er  woman's  lips, 
By  the  ties  of  love,  and  the  chain  that  binds 
Innocent  dreams  in  lover's  minds, 
Begone  !  unless  a  stain  is  found 
On  the  ermine  path  of  our  fairy  ground ; 
If  that  is  pure,  abide  our  spell  — 
Away  to  your  graves  and  your  loathsome  hell !" 

XV. 

They  stood  unmoved  —  when  the  king  spake  thus 
"  Boast  not,  proud  queen,  midst  a  falling  curse  ! 
One  of  your  fays  has  broken  her  vow, 
And  the  blush  may  be  seen  on  her  visage  now  ; 
She  has  roamed  the  earth,  and  is  roaming  still, 
And  fills  a  place  it  is  ours  to  fill ; 


KATY-DID.  233 

What  right  has  she  to  break  young  hearts  ? 
The  merriest  boon  our  caste  imparts. 
Yet  even  now  one  heart  is  breaking 
Beneath  her  charms,  all  hope  forsaking ; 
We  come  to  claim  our  right ;  yield  up 
The  syren  with  her  charmed  cup, 
Or  bid  her  cursed  tribe  forever 
Cry  Katy  did,  what  fay  did  never." 
Titania  turned  to  the  clear  cold  sky, 
And  while  a  tear  bedewed  her  eye, 
With  tones  that  grief  could  only  break, 
The  test  and  malediction  spake. 
"By  all  the  vows  that  e'er  were  spoken, 
By  all  the  vows  that  e'er  were  broken, 
Let  the  guilty  tribe  to  the  green  leaves  fly, 
And  chaunt  forever  their  summer  cry," 

XVI. 

In  an  instant  the  trees  were  filled  with  fays, 
While  the  moon  shone  out  with  a  brighter  blaze, 

And  a  cry  burst  forth  the  throng  amid 

"Katy-did!  Katy-did  !  Katy-did  !  Katy-did  !  " 


MARGARET. 


"  She  never  told  her  love." 

I  KNEW  an  orphan  girl,  whose  story  tells 
How  often  woman's  heart  with  sorrow  swells, 
When,  with  devoted  love  she  gives  away 
Her  life-blood,  drop  by  drop,  in  sure  decay. 
It  is  a  simple  story, — but  to  me, 
Its  truth  comes  home  with  sad  reality. 

She  was  a  serving  maid,  whose  duties  were 
To  watch  the  children  placed  in  trust  with  her, 
And  wait  at  table  for  her  lady's  call, 
Within  the  breakfast  room,  or  dining  hall. 

A  maid  of  sixteen  years,  of  twilight  eyes, 
Deep  set  and  dark,  and  fringed  with  pencil  dyes, 


MARGARET.  235 

Her  forehead  not  too  high,  where  thick  black  hair, 

Combed  smooth  and  parted,  showed  the  whiteness  there  ; 

Her  lips  of  changeless  carmine,  often  parted 

With  dimpling  smiles,  when  sweet  sensation  started 

In  thoughts  so  pure,  an  angel's  self  would  choose  them, 

Robed  in  the  blush  that  mantled  from  her  bosom ; 

Her  form  of  rounded  symmetry,  where  art 

That  makes  so  many  beauties,  bore  no  part ; 

With  mind  untutored,  yet  so  constituted, 

She  never  spake  amiss,  nor  e'er  disputed  ; 

A  girl  like  this,  who  would  not  love  and  cherish  1 

Or  having  won  her  heart,  could  leave  that  heart  to  perish  ? 

But  Margaret  was  not  flattered  :  no  fond  youth 
Had  lisped  the  tale  of  love,  or  pledged  his  truth  ; 
Though  many  a  sigh  shook  off  the  frequent  tear, 
That  there  was  no  one  heart  to  her  more  dear ; 
For  woman's  love  grows  up  within  her  breast, 
Long  ere  it  find  a  place  wherein  to  rest, 
Like  some  poor  wandering  bird  along  the  wave, 
Whose  shelter,  often  proves,  alas  !  its  grave  ! 

There  was  a  youth  within  her  dwelling  place, 
Her  lady's  son,  a  lad  of  manly  grace  ; 
Whose  eighteenth  summer  lit  his  eye  with  fire, 
Fanned  by  his  long  devotion  to  the  lyre ; 
A  youth  with  happy  mien  and  thoughtful  rnood, 
More  prone  to  self-communing  solitude, 
20 


236  MARGARET. 

Than  noisy  revels  ;  with  a  heart  as  free 

From  guileful  deeds,  as  thoughts  of  treachery ; 

His  hopes,  desires,  all  centred  in  one  maid, 

Who  loved  him  as  he  loved,  with  whom  he  strayed 

In  blissful  union,  arm  in  arm  along, 

Where,  from  the  trees,  gushed  out  the  robin's  song ; 

Talking  of  love  —  romantic,  but  sincere, 

And  urging  time  to  quicken  his  career, 

When  by  the  holy  man,  the  knot  should  bind 

Their  married  hearts  in  wedlock  unconfined. 

'  •  * 

But  other  maidens  loved  him,  and  confest 
In  silent  grief,  the  tumult  of  the  breast, 
And  none  so  much  as  Margaret— her  heart 
By  slow  degrees,  unmoved  by  any  art, 
Stole  from  her  care,  with  such  sweet  pleasure  on, 
She  never  knew  the  danger,  till  'twas  gone  ! 

She  ne'er  essayed  his  plighted  love  to  try, 
By  common  arts  of  female  coquetry, 
But  nursed  the  passion  quietly  within ; 
A  passion,  such  as  never  dreamt  of  sin  ; 
And  often  would  she  sit,  and  watch  the  smile 
Of  her  dear  infant  charge,  and  dream  the  while 
Of  Albert,  as  she  marked  within  their  faces, 
His  miniature,  with  all  imagined  graces  ; 
And  she  would  stand  at  table,  and  lift  up 


MARGARET. 

Her  lovely  eyelids,  as  she  filled  his  cup, 
So  tremblingly,  so  innocently  loving, 
Without  a  hope,  or  e'en  a  wish  of  moving  ; 
Crushing  with  her  dark  lashes,  the  rude  tear 
That  would  have  wet  her  cheek  when  he  was  near ! 

But  Margaret  was  wary —  though  she  knew 
No  rude  suspicion  with  her  loved  one  grew ; 
And  she  would  save,  untouched,  the  plate  he  used, 
And  thence  partake  the  viands  he  refused. 
Kind  hearted  girl !  so  humble  and  so  true, 
What  happy  thought  those  simple  moments  knew ! 

But  Time  drank  up  her  tears,  and  Sorrow  now, 
Wept  out  her  life  blood  —  and  her  pallid  brow 
Grew  deadly,  and  the  hectic  on  her  cheek 
Mocked  the  dull  roses,  and  her  voice  grew  weak. 
Her  lips  were  red — but  with  the  purple  tide 
That  bubbled  from  her  heart,  —  and  so  she  died. 

1  did  not  watch  her  eyes  of  fading  light, 
Grow  dim,  then  brighten,  and  then  sink  in  night ; 
But  oftentimes,  my  heart  with  anguish  weeps 
O'er  the  green  earth  where  hapless  Margaret  sleeps. 


237 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 

The  moon  poured  down  her  mellow  light 

Like  silver  on  the  sea, 
And  not  a  breath  disturbed  the  wave, 

In  its  blue  tranquillity : 
No  sound  was  on  the  midnight  ear, 

Save  of  the  dipping  oar, 
While  a  Moorish  galley  anchored  lay 

Beneath  the  Moslem  shore. 

Full  many  a  tear-drop  swelled  the  sea 

That  calm  and  quiet  night, 
And  many  an  aching  breast  grew  cold 

With  hope's  expiring  light; 
For  warriors,  bowed  beneath  their  chains, 

Obeyed  the  lashes'  smart, 
And  thought  upon  their  native  land 

With  heaviness  of  heart. 

Among  the  captives  doomed  to  wear 
Their  weary  lives  away, 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE.  239 

And  tug  to  rest  the  lazy  wind 

With  labour  day  by  day ; 
There  was  a  Spanish  youth,  who  long 

Had  been  a  bondman  there, 
Chasing  the  minutes  as  they  lagg'd, 

By  sighing  to  the  air. 

Juan  had  loved  and  was  beloved, 

And  gave  his  hand  and  heart ; 
But  the  silken  bands  of  love  were  tied, 

Alas !  too  soon  to  part : 
His  country  call'd  to  arms — he  rose 

And  answered  to  her  call, 
And  chance  of  war  decreed  his  fate 

To  be  a  Moorish  thrall. 

The  day  had  been  a  heavy  one, 

Though  their  hopeless  task  was  done, 
But  they  had  toiled  from  breaking  day, 

Nor  ceased  at  setting  sun  : 
While  many  bent  their  earnest  thoughts* 

Far  to  their  native  shore, 
The  weary  Juan  fell  asleep, 

And  sunk  upon  his  oar. 

Oh  Sleep  !  thou  art  the  ftrst  and  last  — 
The  surest  blessing,  given 
2,0* 


240  THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 

To  be  life's  interview  with  death — 
Our  only  gleam  of  Heaven  ;  — 

Without  thy  shadowing  wing,  how  dull 
Were  even  the  joys  of  life  ; 

Without  thy  honey-balm  for  care  — 
How  hopeless  were  the  strife  ! 

And  dreams  of  joy  came  o'er  the  youth, 

Too  pure  for  aught  but  dreams, 
Like  youthful  images  of  love, 

Or  morning's  rosy  beams ; 
For  he  had  broken  from  his  chains, 

And  passed  the  hated  sea, 
And  stood  upon  his  native  land. 

In  the  pride  of  liberty* 

Why  gushed  the  tear-drops  from  his  eye, 

Why  swelled  his  gallant  soul 
With  thoughts,  he  long  had  cherished  deep, 

And  could  not  now  control  1 
Think,  how  his  own  dear  cottage  grew 

Upon  his  eager  sight,' 
And  ask  not  why  his  crowded  heart 

Felt  agonized  delight ! 

The  fruit  trees  in  their  white  spring  robes 
So  purely  blossoming, 


THE  GALLEY  SLAVE.  241 

The  wild  wood  where  the  happy  birds 

Were  gayly  wantoning,  — 
The  little  garden  where  the  flowers 

Were  telling  tales  of  love, 
Had  power  to  move  the  wanderer's  heart, 

As  nothing  less  could  move. 

The  blue  smoke  curling  o'er  the  roof, 

Told  of  the  dwellers  there, 
The  weedless  path  and  garden  spot 

Spake  of  their  tender  care  ; 
But  was  his  widow'd  wife  still  there, 

And  might  he  hope,  his  child,  — 
His  father  as  he  blest  his  boy  — 

His  mother  as  she  smiled  ! 

Winged  with  the  tortures  of  suspense, 

He  urged  the  nearest  way, 
Fear  struggling  with  his  guardian  Hope, 

To  quench  her  cheering  ray  ; 
A  moment,  and  the  gate  was  passed, 

The  garden  and  the  door, 
And  Juan  knelt  in  silent  joy 

Upon  his  cottage  floor. 

Well  has  the  noble  bard  declared 
Young  love's  redeeming  hours, 


242  THE  GALLEY  SLAVE. 

That  pay  us  for  a  life  of  ill, 

With  a  paradise  of  flowers  : 
Then  think  what  wealth  of  happiness 

The  captive's  heart  could  boast, 
As  the  glad  tears  shone  upon  the  breast 

Of  her  he  loved  the  most  L 

There  knelt  his  silver-headed  sire, 

In  deep  but  speechless  prayer, 
With  her  who  only  knows  full  well 

A  parent's  joy  and  care  ; 
And  see  the  blooming  infant  boy, 

With  eyes  upturned  and  wild, 
How  he  clings  upon  a  father's  arms, 

That  now  embrace  his  child  I 

Alas  !  that  dreams  are  only  dreams, 

That  fancy  cannot  give 
A  lasting  beauty  to  those  forms 

That  scarce  a  moment  live  ; 
Alas !  that  youth's  fond  hopes  should  fade, 

And  love  be  but  a  name, 
While  its  rainbows  followed  near  so  fast, 

Are  distant  still  the  same. 

The  moon  was  fading  fast  away 
Behind  the  gloomy  shorer 


THE  GALL  EY  SLAVE.  243 

The  sea-breeze  brought  the  sullen  sound 

Of  the  waking  ocean's  roar ; 
And  Juan's  dream  of  love  passed  off 

With  the  moonlight  from  the  wave, 
When,  by  the  clanking  of  his  chains, 

He  woke  a  galley  slave. 


PAINTING. 

Suggested  by  the  Portrait  of  a  beautiful  Pianist. 

1  STOOD  within  a  palace  of  the  maid, 

Whose  magic  wand  gives  life  to  light  and  shade, 

Where  every  teint  harmoniously  combined, 

Embodied  the  divinity  of  mind. 

1  stood  in  silence  —  language  had  no  power 

To  break  the  grave-like  stillness  of  the  hour. 

A  vision  passed  before  me  —  on  a  throne 
Of  rosy  clouds,  girt  by  a  vestal  zone, 
Sat  the  fair  queen  of  soft  and  shadowy  things, 
More  beautiful  than  love's  imaginings  ; 
Her  language,  like  the  language  of  the  flowers 
That  wave  among  the  music-dropping  bowers, 
Or  like  the  voices  of  the  quiet  skies, 
Was  only  felt  in  unheard  harmonies ; 
Her  eye  was  calmer  than  the  breathless  wave, 
Save  when  a  transient  gleam  from  heaven  gave 
Sublimer  lustre 


PAINTING.  245 

And  then  the  flash  was  instant,  for  I  saw 
Its  light  grow  milder  than  it  shone  before. 

She  waved  a  delicate  and  shining  wand, 
Fair  as  the  lily-texture  of  her  hand, 
And  waved  but  once,  for  as  it  passed  the  air, 
A  rainbow,  following,  arched  in  glory  there, 
When,  quick  as  thought,  her  pencil  caught  its  dyes, 
And  lo  !  the  vision  brightened  to  my  eyes. 

I  saw  a  crowd  of  airy  forms  pass  on, 
And  kneel  before  her  feet  —  and  there  was  one 
Of  highest  personal  beauty,  such  as  steals 
Our  manhood  from  us  —  wounds,  and  never  heals. 
Another  came  of  loftier  mien — a  maid, 
1  knew  her  by  the  softness  of  her  shade  ; 
By  the  sweet  mellowness  all  objects  caught, 
Reflected  from  a  mind  with  fancy  fraught. 
Another  came  —  another  —  and  another  ; 
Infants  that  stole  the  smiles  of  a  fond  mother, 
And  many  happy  faces,  where  was  naught 
But  laughing  gladness  throned,  in  place  of  thought ; 
And  there  were  bards  of  intellect  divine, 
One,  who  had  tuned  his  harp  for  Palestine  ; 
Another,  who  had  scattered  many  a  gem, 
Lavish  of  mental  wealth  ;  whose  diadem, 


PAINTING. 

The  muses  now  are  forming  in  the  shade, 
To  brighten  on  through  ages  and  not  fade. 
And  there  was  one,  whose  lyre  but  newly  strung, 
Sent  forth  a  melancholy  strain,  and  flung 
A  sadness  o'er  the  heart  —  but  he  shall  live 
Even  in  the  very  sadness  he  may  give. 

So  passed  they  on  —  while  I  in  mute  surprise, 
Wept  inwardly,  so  gladdened  were  mine  eyes  ; 
And  as  I  knelt  to  worship,  lo  !  again 
She  waved  her  wand,  and  darkness  wrapt  my  brain, 
While  music  filled  the  air  with  gentler  strains, 
Than  e'er  aerial  lyre  from  seraph  gains  ; 
And  then  it  swelled  to  loudness,  till  its  crash 
Came  like  the  sounding  avalanche's  dash, 
That  made  my  spirit  pray  it  might  be  free, 
And  never  lose  such  fine  sublimity. 
Light  came  to  me  again,  and  oh !  how  fair, 
How  brightly  delicate  the  minstrel  there  ; 
Her  eyes  were  fixt  upon  the  list'ning  skies, 
That  looked  the  fulness  of  their  ecstacies  ! 
Her  dark  locks  flowing  down  her  glowing  face, 
Shaded  its  lustre  with  such  gentle  grace, 
One  would  have  thought  the  softest  hues  of  night 
Had  gathered  round  Aurora  in  her  light. 
A  harp  stood  by  Apollo  might  have  swept, 
While  o'er  the  thrilling  strings  her  fingers  leapt, 


PAINTING.  247 

Racing  so  emulously  fast,  they  seemed 

Pearls  raining  upon  ivory,  yet  gleamed 

With  a  more  feminine  whiteness,  while  the  notes, 

That  gushed  as  from  a  thousand  warbling  throats, 

Held  the  rapt  soul  in  such  sweet  ecstacy, 

Full  well  I  knew  it  was  my  hour  to  die. 

Then  came  again  the  forms  that  passed  before, 
Bowing  in  joyous  homage  to  adore. 

The  rainbow-queen  looked  pleasure  as  she  spake, 
"Behold  what  art's  magician  hand  can  make  ; 
"  Awake  !  thy  dream  is  past,  and  now  decide, 
"  Of  Art  and  Nature,  which  shall  hence  preside." 
t  woke  ;  and  with  me  woke  the  dulcet  strain  ; 
My  heart  drunk  in  the  mingled  notes  again : 
It  was  no  dream,  the  minstrel's  self  was  there, 
But  oh  !  than  Art's,  how  more  divinely  fair  ! 
Queen  of  the  magic  wand !  thy  power  may  move 
To  charm  the  heart,  but  Nature  makes  it  lave  ! 


21 


SUNRISE, 

FROM    MOUNT    WASHINGTON. 

THE  laughing  hours  have  chased  away  the  night, 
Plucking  the  stars  out  from  her  diadem :  — 
And  now  the  blue-eyed  Morn,  with  modest  grace, 
Looks  through  her  half-drawn  curtains  in  the  east, 
Blushing  in  smiles  and  glad  as  infancy. 
And  see,  the  foolish  Moon,  but  now  so  vain 
Of  borrowed  beauty,  how  she  yields  her  charms, 
And,  pale  with  envy,  steals  herself  away  ! 
The  clouds  have  put  their  gorgeous  livery  on, 
Attendant  on  the  day  —  the  mountain  tops 
Have  lit  their  beacons,  and  the  vales  below 
Send  up  a  welcoming  ;  — no  song  of  birds, 
Warbling  to  charm  the  air  with  melody, 
Floats  on  the  frosty  breeze  ;  yet  Nature  hath 
The  very  soul  of  music  in  her  looks  ! 
The  sunshine  and  the  shade  of  poetry. 

I  stand  upon  thy  lofty  pinnacle, 
Temple  of  Nature  !  and  look  down  with  awe 


SUNRISE.  249 

On  the  wide  world  beneath  me,  dimly  seen  ; 
Around  me  crowd  the  giant  sons  of  earth, 
Fixed  on  their  old  foundations,  unsubdued  ; 
Firm  as  when  first  rebellion  bade  them  rise 
Unrifted  to  the  Thunderer  —  now  they  seem 
A  family  of  mountains,  clustering  round 
Their  hoary  patriarch,  emulously  watching 
To  meet  the  partial  glances  of  the  day. 
Far  in  the  glowing  east  the  flickering  light, 
Mellowed  by  distance  with  the  blue  sky  blending, 
Questions  the  eye  with  ever- varying  forms. 

The  sun  comes  up !  away  the  shadows  fling 
From  the  broad  hills  —  and,  hurrying  to  the  West, 
Sport  in  the  sunshine,  till  they  die  away. 
The  many  beauteous  mountain  streams  leap  down, 
Out-welling  from  the  clouds,  and  sparkling  light 
Dances  along  with  their  perennial  flow. 
And  there  is  beauty  in  yon  river's  path, 
The  glad  Connecticut !  I  know  her  well, 
By  the  white  veil  she  mantles  o'er  her  charms  : 
At  times,  she  loiters  by  a  ridge  of  hills, 
Sportfully  hiding  —  then  again  with  glee, 
Out-rushes  from  her  wild-wood  lurking-place, 
Far  as  the  eye  can  bound,  the  ocean-waves, 
And  hills  and  rivers,  mountains,  lakes  and  woods, 
And  all  that  hold  the  faculty  entranced, 


250  SUNRISE. 

Bathed  in  a  flood  of  glory,  float  in  air, 
And  sleep  in  the  deep  quietude  of  joy. 

There  is  an  awful  stillness  in  this  place, 
A  Presence,  that  forbids  to  break  the  spell, 
Till  the  heart  pour  its  agony  in  tears. 
But  I  must  drink  the  vision  while  it  lasts  ; 
For  even  now  the  curling  vapours  rise, 
Wreathing  their  cloudy  coronals,  to  grace 
These  towering  summits  ~-  bidding  me  away ;  — 
But  often  shall  my  heart  turn  back  again, 
Thou  glorious  eminence !  and  when  oppressed, 
And  aching  with  the  coldness  of  the  world, 
Find  a  sweet  resting-place  and  home  with  thee. 


BURIED   LOVE. 


I  have  often  thought  that  Flowers  were  the  Alphabet  of  Angels  whereby 
they  write  on  hills  and  fields  mysterious  truths.  —  THE  REBELS. 

SHE  sleeps  the  quiet  sleep  of  death, 

The  maid  who  lies  below  ; 
And  these  are  Angel-missioned  flowers, 

That  o'er  the  green  turf  grow. 

And  they  are  sent  to  warn  the  fair, 

How  transient  is  their  bloom ; 
See  how  they  bend  their  tender  forms, 

And  weep  upon  her  tomb. 

The  blush  upon  her  living  cheek, 

Had  shamed  the  morning  skies  ; 
And  diamond  light,  is  not  more  bright 

Than  were  her  youthful  eyes. 

To  see  her,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Gave  love  a  lighter  wing ; 


252  BURIED    LOVE. 

And  happy  thoughts  would  crowd  the  heart, 
And  gush  from  many  a  spring. 

I  know  the  language  of  the  flowers, 
And  love  to  hear  them  grieve, — 

When  crimsoning  to  the  eye  of  morn, 
Or  drooping  to  the  eve. 

I  listened  when  the  star  of  love 
Shone  through  the  blue  serene  ; 

When  twilight  held  her  silent  wake, 
Beneath  the  crested  queen. 

They  told  of  her  whose  spirit  comes 
To  breathe  upon  their  leaves ; 

And  can  1  choose  but  love  the  breath, 
That  once  was  Genevieve's  1 

She's  gone,  where  sorrow  may  not  come, 

Where  pain  may  never  be ; 
But  she  who  lives  an  angel  still, 

May  sometimes  think  of  me. 

Though  gone,  alas  !  her  blushing  smile, 

Who  sleeps  in  sweet  repose, 
I  joy  to  find  its  mimic  grace, 

Still  living  in  the  rose. 


BURIED    LOVE.  353 


Then  will  I  love  the  modest  flower, 

And  cherish  it  with  tears : 
It  minds  me  of  my  fleeting  time, 

Yet  chases  all  my  fears. 

And  when  my  hour  of  rest  shall  be, 

I  will  not  weep  my  doom  ; 
So,  Angel-missioned  flowers  may  come, 

And  gather  round  my  tomb  ( 


ANACREONTIC. 

FILL  again  the  mantling  bowl, 

Nor  fear  to  meet  the  morning  breaking  ! 
None  but  slaves  should  bend  the  soul, 

Beneath  the  chains  of  mortal  making : 
Fill  your  beakers  to  the  brim, 
Bacchus  soon  shall  lull  your  sorrow ; 
Let  delight 
But  crown  the  night, 
And  care  may  bring  her  clouds  to-morrow. 

Mark  this  cup  of  rosy  wine, 

With  virgin  pureness  deeply  blushing  ; 
Beauty  pressed  it  from  the  vine, 

While  Love  stood  by  to  charm  its  gushing ; 
He  who  dares  to  drain  it  now, 

Shall  drink  such  bliss  as  seldom  gladdens  ; 
The  Moslem's  dream 
Would  joyless  seem, 
To  him  whose  brain  its  rapture  maddens. 


ANACREONTIC.  255 

Pleasure  sparkles  on  the  brim — 
Lethe,  lies  far  deeper  in  it  — 
Both,  enticing,  wait  for  him, 

Whose  heart  is  warm  enough  to  win  it : 
Hearts  like  ours,  if  e'er  they  chill, 
Soon  with  Love  again  must  lighten  ; 
Skies  may  wear 
A  darksome  air, 
Where  sunshine  most  is  known  to  brighten. 

Then  fill !  fill  high  the  mantling  bowl, 

Nor  fear  to  meet  the  morning  breaking; 
Care  shall  never  cloud  the  soul, 

While  Beauty's  beaming  eyes  are  waking  ; 
Fill  your  beakers  to  the  brim, 
Bacchus  soon  shall  lull  your  sorrow  ; 
Let  delight 
But  crown  the  night, 
And  Care  may  bring  her  clouds  to-morrow, 


ALBUQUERQUE. 

A  STORM  was  on  the  deep  — 

And  lightning,  in  its  wrath, 
Called  the  darkness  from  its  sleep, 

In  the  fierce  tornado's  path ;  — 
The  ocean  waves  went  up  among 

The  thunder-spirit's  choir  — 
Recoiling  as  the  death-note  rung 

From  their  canopy  of  fire. 

"Awake!  awake! — behold 

"  Death  throned  among  the  clouds  ! 
"  The  sands  of  life  are  told  — 

"  The  waves  must  be  our  shrouds."  — 
Thus  spake  the  chief,  while  clinging  round, 

The  shrieking  concourse  stood, 
Waiting  the  sulphurous  bolt  to  sound 

Their  requiem  for  the  flood. 

Stern  Albuquerque  that  hour 
Showed  horror  on  his  brow, 


ALBUQUERQUE.  257 

While  conscience,  in  her  power, 

Made  his  haughty  heart  to  bow  — 
Hot  lightning  blackened  many  a  corse, 

And  split  his  bending  mast, 
While  bounding,  like  a  reinless  horse, 

On  went  the  proud  ship  fast. 

Pressed  down  with  guilty  fear, 

He  knew  his  turn  might  be  — 
Another  bolt  fell  near, 

And  burst  upon  the  sea  ; 
When,  from  a  mother's  bosom  blest, 

He  snatched  her  infant  care, 
And  clasping  it  before  his  breast, 

Defied  the  lightning's  glare. 

" Now  strike !  —I  stand  prepared  — 

"  Hurl  down,  proud  Heaven !  thy  worst, 
"For  Innocence  is  bared 

"Before  a  bosom  cursed!" 
He  stood  —  the  tempest  fell  asleep  — 

The  hurricane  passed  o'er 

His  arms  that  keep  the  mighty  deep, 

Showed  mercy  and  forbore  ! 


SONNET. 

LOOK  !  how  the  young  Moon,  o'er  the  orange  west, 
Walks  in  her  maiden  purity ;  —  she  seems 
Adorned  in  brighter,  more  alluring  beams, 

To  flatter  all  that  look  the  loveliest. 

The  sea-breeze  laps  him  to  his  halcyon  rest, 
Upon  the  dark-blue  waters  —  where  the  gleams 
Of  sheeting  moonlight  silver  o'er  his  dreams, 

And  melt  to  love  the  Atlantic's  heaving  breast, 

The  stars  are  out,  and  beautiful  are  they, 
Cold,  but  still  beautiful,  a  crowded  choir, 

Harmonious  in  their  heavenly  minstrelsy  : 
And  I  would  fain,  with  beating  heart,  aspire 

To  their  communion,  —  but  this  weight  of  clay, 
Clings  to  the  soul,  and  mocks  the  vain  desire  ! 


SPIRIT   OF   BEAUTY. 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty  unfurls  her  light, 
And  wheels  her  course  in  a  joyous  flight ; 
I  know  her  track  through  the  balmy  air, 
By  the  blossoms  that  cluster  and  whiten  there  ; 
She  leaves  the  tops  of  the  mountains  green, 
And  gems  the  valley  with  crystal  sheen. 

At  morn,  1  know  where  she  rested  at  night, 
For  the  roses  are  gushing  with  dewy  delight ; 
Then  she  mounts  again,  and  round  her  flings 
A  shower  of  light  from  her  crimson  wings  ; 
Till  the  spirit  is  drunk  with  the  music  on  high, 
That  silently  fills  it  with  ecstacy. 

At  noon  she  hies  to  a  cool  retreat, 
Where  bowering  elms  over  waters  meet, 
She  dimples  the  wave  where  the  green  leaves  dip, 
As  it  smilingly  curls  like  a  maiden's  lip, 
When  her  tremulous  bosom  would  hide,  in  vain, 
From  her  lover,  the  hope  that  she  loves  again. 
22 


260 


SPIRIT   OF   BEAUTY. 


At  eve  she  hangs  o'er  the  western  sky 
Dark  clouds  for  a  glorious  canopy, 
And  round  the  skirts  of  their  deepened  fold, 
She  paints  a  border  of  purple  and  gold, 
Where  the  ling'ring  sunbeams  love  to  stay, 
When  their  god  in  his  glory  has  passed  away. 

She  hovers  around  us  at  twilight  hour, 

When  her  presence  is  felt  with  the  deepest  power, 

She  silvers  the  landscape,  and  crowds  the  stream 

With  shadows  that  flit  like  a  fairy  dream ; 

Then  wheeling  her  flight  through  the  gladdened  air, 

The  Spirit  of  Beauty  is  every  where. 


SPRING. 

HAIL  to  thee,  gentle  Spring, 
With  thy  softened  gales  appearing ; 
As  a  prisoned  bird  let  free, 
My  heart  leaps  at  thy  coming. 
Stern  Winter  shuns  thy  smile, 
Or  melts  it  into  tears  before  thee. 

Look  !  how  the  budding  trees 
Wave  to  their  joyous  mother ; 
How  the  gay  floweret  breathes 
The  perfume  of  its  beauty  ; 
How  the  glad  fields  arise, 
And  clothe  themselves  in  verdure  ! 

The  frozen  clouds  of  Winter 
Are  grateful  even  to  weeping ; 
How  warm  they  grow  in  the  sunshine, 
Pillowed  on  the  deep  blue  sky, 


262  SPRING. 

Or  floating  in  careless  pleasure, 
With  the  singing  birds  of  morning  ! 

The  sleepless  streams  move  onward 
Through  beds  of  idling  lilies, 
Chiding  the  foolish  flowers 
That  watch  their  mirrored  beauty  ;  — 
So  live  the  thoughtless  many, 
Who  throng  the  halls  of  fashion  ! 

Come  to  me,  smiling  Spring  ! 
Come  to  my  inmost  bosom  ; 
I  would  clasp  thee  to  my  heart, 
For  my  love  yearns  to  embrace  thee. 
Wake  in  me  early  visions, 
Visions  that  used  to  bless  me  ! 


SONG. 

'Tis  the  season  of  tender  delight, 

The  season  of  fresh-springing  flowers ; 
The  green  earth  is  covered  with  spangles  of  white, 

And  Love  leads  the  rapturous  hours. 
Glad  Nature  is  loud  in  her  transport  of  pleasure, 

The  vallies  and  mountains  re-echo  her  lay ; 
The  robin  now  warbles  his  love-breathing  measure, 

And  scatters  the  blossoms  while  tilting  the  spray. 
One  impulse  of  tenderness  thrills  through  the  groves, 
While  the  birds  carol  sweetly  their  innocent  loves. 

The  Westwind  !  how  mildly  he  blows, 

What  fragrance  his  light  pinions  bear — 
He  breathes,  as  if  fearful  to  brush  from  the  roses 

The  dew-drops  so  tremulous  there  : 
The  brook  flowing  softly  among  the  green  cresses, 

So  lightsomely  dashes  their  branches  away, 
It  seems  some  fond  mother,  who  while  she  caresses, 

Would  sportfully  chide  her  young  children  at  play. 


SONG. 

Hear  the  minstrel-bee  lulling  the  blossoms  to  rest, 
For  the  nectar  he  sips  as  the  wild-flowers'  guest ! 

Look  out  then  on  Nature,  awhile  ; 

Observe  her  inviting  thee  now,  — 
Benevolence  beams  in  her  sunshiny  smile, 

And  blandishment  sits  on  her  brow :  — 
Come  stray  with  me,  love,  where  the  fountains  are  flowing, 

And  wild-flowers  cluster  to  drink  of  the  stream  ; 
While  watching  the  lily  and  daflbdil  blowing, 

No  moment  of  bliss  shall  so  exquisite  seem. 
When  Nature  invites  thee,  oh  why  then  delay  1 
While  joy  is  still  waking,  away !  love,  away  I 


YARICO'S   LAMENT. 

THY  bark  is  on  the  midnight  wave, 
Thy  thoughts  are  far  from  love  and  me, 

And  Hope  has  found  a  cheerless  grave, 
Within  a  heart  still  true  to  thee. 

Thy  babe  is  on  my  aching  breast, 
Where  passion  breathed  a  father's  sigh, 

When  that  cold  cheek  I  fondly  prest, 
And  wet  with  tears  1  could  not  dry. 

1  found  thee  on  my  father's  isle — 
My  father!  — nay  fond  memory,  cease  — 

I  would  not  think  of  one  whose  smile 
Can  only  light  the  wreck  of  peace  ! 

1  found  thee  friendless  and  alone, 
No  hand  to  soothe  thy  bed  of  pain; 

Oh,  Inkle,  did  my  bosom  own 
No  joy  to  see  thee  live  again  ! 


266  YARICO'S    LAMENT. 

I  led  thee  where  the  lemon  grew, 

Where  waterfalls  and  fountains  played, 

And  where  the  kind  banana  threw 
Her  arms  to  comfort  thee  with  shade. 

And  thou  didst  swear  to  love  me  then, 
And  teach  me  how  the  Christians  pray  ; 

And  tears  were  on  thine  eyelids,  when 
1  gave  my  virgin  heart  away. 

My  heart !  oh,  do  not  break  so  soon, 
Throb  yet  awhile  to  cheer  my  boy  ; 

Kind  Heaven,  but  grant  the  simple  boon, 
Nor  thus  my  life's  poor  hold  destroy. 

Forgive  the  wrong  !  his  heart  is  mild, 
And  did.  not  mean  to  give  me  pain ; 

Blest  image !  come,  my  tearless  child. 
And  let  me  dream  the  past  again  I 


MARY   HALL. 

ONE  lovely  summer  day, 

When  birds  were  blithely  singing, 
And  care  had  flown  away, 

And  flowers  were  freshly  springing, 
I  wandered  forth  to  drink  the  air, 

And  waken  sweet  revealings, 
While  all  around  me  seemed  to  share, 

My  bosom's  happy  feelings. 

Among  the  waving  trees, 

That  rustled  o'er  a  valley, 
Went  up  the  eddying  breeze, 

Through  a  cool  and  shady  alley ; 
And  while  I  listened  to  the  rush 

Of  green  leaves  blown  together, 
The  robin  and  the  playful  thrush, 

Were  singing  in  the  heather. 

But  soon  another  voice, 
As  though  an  angel  hovered, 


268  MARY    HALL. 

Made  every  bird  rejoice, 
Within  the  foliage  covered  ; 

With  sweeter  tone  than  warbling  flute, 
It  lingered  on  my  hearing, 

While  other  sounds  were  only  mute, 
But  now,  so  much  endearing. 

Beside  a  pebbly  brook, 

1  saw  a  woman  bending, 
And  joy  was  in  her  look, 

With  melancholy  blending ; 
And  close  behind  her  o'er  a  blaze, 

A  water-vessel  boiling, 
Told  plainly  how  she  passed  her  days 

In  solitary  toiling. 

Charmed  by  her  syren  tongue, 

That  did  not  cease  for  me, 
I  asked  her  why  she  sung, 

And  looked  so  smilingly  ? 
She  told  me  that  she  felt  delight, 

That  GOD,  who  dwells  above  her, 
Allowed  her  toiling  day  and  night, 

To  buy  her  bondman  lover. 

Though  humble  thou  and  poor, 
And  of  a  race  enslaved, 


MARY    HALL. 

Still,  Mary  Hall,  endure 

What  all  thy  truth  has  braved  ! 
1  would  not  give  thy  honest  heart, 

So  full  of  noble  bearing, 
For  all  Potosi's  mines  impart, 

Or  high  heroic  daring. 


TO    CRESS1D. 

'Tis  not  the  fairest  form,  that  holds 
The  mildest,  purest  soul  within  ; 

'Tis  not  the  richest  plant  that  folds 
The  sweetest  breath  of  fragrance  in ; 

And  oft  within  the  rose's  bower, 
A  lurking  insect  lies  unknown, 

That  steals  the  honey  from  the  flower, 
Before  its  outward  grace  has  flown. 

Then  should  a  rude  wind  come  at  length, 
To  break  the  quiet  reigning  round, 

The  flower  that  had  the  look  of  strength, 
Falls  scarcely  heeded  to  the  ground. 

Then  lady !  cast  thy  pride  away, 

And  chase  those  rebel  thoughts  of  thine ; 

The  casket  may  be  bright  and  gay, 
Yet  all  within  refuse  to  shine. 


TO    CRESSID.  271 

Beneath  a  shower  of  golden  light, 
The  ocean's  breast  seems  warm  and  fair, 

But  when  the  shadows  fall  at  night, 
We  find  but  few  to  venture  there. 

Hast  thou  an  eye  for  Nature  made, 

A  heart  to  feel  the  truth  she  bears) 
Thou'lt  learn  a  lesson  from  her  shade, 

To  save  thee  from  thy  after-cares ! 

For  should  misfortune  ever  lower, 
'T  will  cloud  those  charms  that  dazzle  so; 

And  friends  who  greet  thy  fortune's  power, 
Will  smile  upon  its  overthrow. 


AN  INTRODUCTION. 

THERE'S  not  a  bird  that  charms  the  air, 
There's  not  a  flower  that  scents  the  gale, 

There's  not  a  bee  that  wantons  where 
The  wild-rose  gems  the  vale  ; 

But  each  has  some  secluded  shrine, 
The  leafy  tree,  or  fragrant  fold 

Of  blossoms,  that  in  clusters  shine, 
Its  happy  guest  to  hold. 

There's  not  a  heart,  whose  pulses  tell 
How  calm  or  wild  the  wish  within, 

But  there  is  yet  some  secret  cell, 
No  stranger  eye  can  win. 

There,  records  sweet  of  banished  hours, 
And  tristful  pangs  of  hope  deferred, 

As  light  and  shade  upon  the  flowers, 
Are  felt,  but  never  heard. 


AN   INTRODUCTION.  273 

For  many  a  sigh,  and  many  a  tear, 

And  many  a  grief  are  buried  there, 
While  Love's  pale  image  lingers  near, 

The  picture  of  despair. 

This  wilderness  of  stainless  white, 
Like  Beauty's  guileless  heart,  unknown, 

Must  be  a  place  of  varied  light, 

Where  Thought  shall  build  his  throne. 

The  flatterer's  breath  shall  taint  its  snow, 

While  many  a  heart  of  truth  shall  tell 
The  wish  it  scarce  would  have  thee  know, 

Yet  cherishes  so  well. 

Then,  while  the  hours  enjoy  their  flight 
Among  the  flowers  that  grace  this  shrine, 

Oh,  may  one  smile  of  cloudless  light, 
Remain  forever  thine ! 


SONNET. 

OH,  thou,  who  art  the  fairest  of  earth's  daughters, 
Delighted  could  1  sit  a  summer's  day, 
To  drink  the  music  of  thy  lips  away, 

Gushing  their  careless  melody  as  waters  ; 
And  while  I  gazed  upon  thy  full  blue  eyes, 

Still  listening  to  thy  passion-kindling  songs, 
Deem  myself  happiest  of  thy  votaries. 

Thus  while  the  morning  lark  his  notes  prolongs, 
Lists  the  rapt  bard,  and  bending  to  the  skies, 

Sends  up  the  incense  of  a  grateful  heart,      , 
For  such  a  gleam  of  heavenly  ecstacies. 

Oh  beautiful  in  feature,  —  as  thou  art 

More  beautiful  in  mind,  —  my  thoughts  of  thee 
Shall  live  in  Love's  undying  memory  ! 


TO  GENEVIEVE. 

I'LL  rob  the  hyacinth  and  rose, 

I'll  search  the  cowslip's  fragrant  cell, 

Nor  spare  the  breath  that  daily  blows 
Her  incense  from  the  asphodel. 

And  these  shall  breathe  thy  gentle  name, 
Sweet  naiad  of  the  sacred  stream ! 

Where,  musing,  first  I  caught  the  flame 
That  passion  kindles  in  his  dream. 

Thy  soul  of  music  broke  the  spell 

That  bound  my  lyre's  neglected  strings, 

Attuned  its  silent  echo's  shell, 
And  loosed  again  her  airy  wings. 

Ah  !  long  had  beauty's  eyes,  in  vain, 
Shone  o'er  its  strings  with  light  divine ; 

Alas  !   it  never  woke  again, 
Till  inspiration  beamed  from  thine. 
23* 


276  TO  GENEVIEVE. 

Thus  vainly  did  the  stars,  at  night, 

O'er  Memnon's  lyre  their  watch  prolong, 

When  naught  but  bright  Aurora's  light, 
Could  wake  its  silence  into  song. 


FADING  FLOWERS. 

AN  ILLUSTRATION. 

WITHIN  a  bower  where  roses  blushed 
To  see  their  charms  outshone, 

At  evening,  when  the  world  was  hushed, 
A  maiden  sat  alone. 

The  moonlight,  blending  with  the  day, 

Shone  mildly  on  her  eyes, 
And  birds  were  dancing  on  the  spray, 

Showering  their  melodies. 

But  peace  has  left  her  maiden  heart, 
And  blighted  hopes  are  hers, 

While  fading  flowers  the  forms  impart 
Of  all  her  worshippers. 

The  smiles  that  used  to  greet  her  way, 
Have  ceased  to  light  her  feet, 


278  FADING  FLOWERS. 

And  every  flower  appears  to  say, 
We  part,  no  more  to  meet. 

Oh  woman  !  could  thy  bosom  know, 
How  rose-like  Love  must  die, 

Thy  heart  would  never  languish  so, 
In  silent  agony ; 

For  every  flower  that  fades  away, 
Would  mind  thee  of  thy  doom, 

That  beauty's  charm  and  beauty's  sway, 
Are  chaplets  for  the  tomb. 


STANZAS   FOR   MUSIC. 

Now  while  the  star  of  love  is  bright, 
Now  while  the  air  is  hushed  in  night, 
Come  where  the  roses  breathe  in  sleep, 
Ere  morning  wake  to  bid  them  weep, 
While  Beauty  folds  them  to  her  breast, 
And  bids  them  lie  in  gentle  rest, 
With  sweet  content. 

Here  would  1  sit,  and  watch  those  eyes, 
Blue  as  the  summer  morning  skies, 
Then,  on  this  wildly  throbbing  breast, 
While  every  pulse  my  love  confest, 
Fain  would  1  see  thine  eyelids  close, 
Locked  in  the  fetters  of  the  rose, 
With  sweet  content. 


TO   AN  INFANT, 

SLEEPING    IN    A    GARDEN. 

SLEEP  on,  sweet  babe  !  the  flowers  that  wake 
Around  thee  are  not  half  so  fair  ; 

Thy  dimpling  smiles  unconscious  break, 
Like  sunlight  on  the  vernal  air. 

Sleep  on  !   no  dreams  of  care  are  thine, 
No  anxious  thoughts  that  may  not  rest ; 

For  angel  arms  around  thee  twine, 
To  make  thy  infant  slumbers  blest. 

Perchance  her  spirit  hovers  near, 

Whose  name  thy  infant  beauty  bears, 

To  guard  thine  eyelids  from  the  tear 
That  every  child  of  sorrow  shares. 

Oh  !  may  thy  life  like  her's  endure, 

Unsullied  to  its  spotless  close  ; 
And  bend  to  earth  as  calm  and  pure 

As  ever  bowed  the  summer  rose. 


WILT   THOU  GO  FAR  AWAY? 

WILT  thou  go  far  away  from  this  dark  world  with  me, 
To  an  isle  of  our  own,  in  a  warm  sunny  sea, 
Where  summer  lives  on,  in  a  soft  genial  clime, 
And  breathes  the  rich  fragrance  of  orange  and  lime  1 

Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  love  !  where  the  halcyon  hours 
Are  noiseless  as  angels,  that  move  among  flowers, 
Where  care  may  not  come  to  disturb  our  repose, 
As  the  calm  tide  of  pleasure  unsulliedly  flows  1 

The  music  that  comes  on  the  citron-gale's  wing 
Shall  wake  thee  at  morn,  and  new  happiness  bring, 
And  evening  shall  find  thee,  with  innocence  gay, 
Living  over  in  dreams  all  the  joys  of  the  day. 

The  bark  is  unmoored  that  shall  bear  us  away, 
And  the  fresh  blowing  breeze  only  chides  our  delay  ; 
Then  haste,  ere  the  summer  of  youth,  has  gone  by, 
To  our  island  of  love  with  its  warm  sunny  sky ! 


ANNE   BOLEYN. 

I  WEEP  while  gazing  on  thy  modest  face, 
Thou  pictured  history  of  woman's  love  ! 
Joy  spreads  his  burning  pinions  on  thy  cheek, 
Shaming  its  whiteness  ;  and  thine  eyes  are  full 
Of  conscious  beauty,  as  they  undulate. 
Yet  all  thy  beauty,  poor  deluded  girl ! 
Served  but  to  light  thy  ruin.  —  Is  there  not, 
Kind  Heaven  !  some  secret  talisman  of  hearts 
Whereby  to  find  a  resting-place  for  love  ? 
Unhappy  maiden  !  let  thy  story  teach 
The  beautiful  and  young,  that  while  their  path 
Softens  with  roses,  —  danger  may  be  there ; 
That  love  may  watch  the  bubbles  of  the  stream, 
But  never  trust  his  image  on  the  wave. 


STANZAS. 

AND  canst  thou  not  accord  that  heart 

In  unison  with  mine, 
Whose  language  thou  alone  hast  heard, 

Thou  only  canst  divine? 
And  wilt  thou  not  revoke  thy  cold 

And  merciless  decree, 
Nor  yield  one  solitary  thought, 
To  plead  my  wrongs  to  theel 

I  found  thee  yet  a  modest  flower, 

An  infant  of  the  spring, 
Unheeded,  in  the  rosy  crowd 

Of  beauty,  blossoming ; 
And  little  didst  thou  think,  how  clear 

Thy  spirit  round  me  shone, 
To  light  the  inward  joy  of  hope 

My  tongue  could  never  own. 

J  saw  thee  in  the  gay  saloon 
Of  fashion's  glittering  mart, 
24 


284  STANZAS. 

Where  Mammon  buys  what  Love  deplores, 
Where  Nature  yields  to  Art; 

And  thou  wast  so  unlike  the  herd, 
My  kindling  heart  despised, 

I  could  not  choose  but  yield  that  heart, 
Though  Love  were  sacrificed. 

The  smile  which  hung  upon  thy  lips, 

In  transport  with  their  tone, 
The  music  of  thy  thoughts,  that  breathed 

A  magic  theirs  alone  ; 
The  look  that  spake  a  soul  so  pure, 

So  innocent  and  gay, 
Have  passed,  like  other  golden  gleams 

Of  Happiness,  away. 

My  life  has  been  a  dream  of  light, 

Of  loveliness  and  love  ; 
While  serpents  coiled  beneath  my  path, 

And  roses  bloomed  above  ; 
And  yet  a  wicked  whisper  comes, 

Like  madness,  to  my  brain, 
And  bids  me  dream  as  I  have  dreamt, 

And  never  wake  again. 


SPIRIT    OF  LOVE. 

SPIRIT  of  Love  !  away,  away, 

On  the  rosy  wings  of  the  blushing  day  ; 

I've  a  dream  of  bliss  for  you  to  bear 

To  a  blue-eyed  beauty  with  chestnut  hair. 

You'll  know  my  girl  when  you  see  her  smile, 
For  her  eloquent  mouth  breathes  joy  the  while, 
And  her  dimpling  cheek  puts  on  a  hue, 
To  quicken  the  pulses  that  madden  you. 

II  sleep  be  still  on  her  modest  eyes, 
With  their  lashes  that  fall  like  the  evening  skies, 
If  you  hear  her  sigh,  or  her  lips  should  spread, 
To  show  the  pearls  in  their  coral  bed ; 

Whisper  in  music,  as  soft  and  clear 
As  spirits  in  slumber  are  wont  to  hear, 
My  dream  of  love,  which  you  shall  hold 
In  the  warm  embrace  of  your  angel  fold. 


286  SPIRIT     OF    LOVE. 

Then  bring  me  back,  ere  the  twilight  die, 
My  dream  again  through  the  glowing  sky, 
That  my  heart  may  cherish  the  sighs  that  went 
From  the  bosom  of  one  so  innocent. 


THE  BAYA. 

THE  Indian  bird,  that  steals  away 

The  broach  unguarded  beauty  wears, 
When  round  her  sparkling  fountains  play, 

And  bulbuls  chant  their  cares  ; 

Bold  messenger  of  love  !  he  dares 
What  others  only  dare  in  dreams  ; 

Oh  would  that  I  were  such  as  he, 

On  light  wings  full  of  liberty 
To  skim  the  mountain  streams. 

I'd  choose  some  kind  and  gentle  maid, 
To  love  as  youthful  poets  love  — 

Warm  as  a  sunbeam  without  shade, 
And  guileless  as  a  dove  : 
To  be  her  angel-guard  above, 

And  guide  her  steps  where'er  she  went ; 
To  sing  to  her  when  slumber  fell, 
In  notes  to  trouble  Philomel, 

So  melancholy  blent. 

24* 


288  THE    BAYA. 

And  when  she  died  —  I'd  watch  her  grave, 
And  teach  the  violets  to  grow, 

The  willow  over  her  should  wave, 
And  softest  shadows  throw. 
Just  such  a  grave  1  chance  to  know, 

Where  oft  1  bend  in  tearless  grief ; 

But  though  the  earliest  flowers  are  there, 
The  rudest  hand  would  never  dare 

To  rob  them  of  a  leaf. 

Dear  bird  of  love !  thy  life  is  fraught 
With  pleasant  care  and  blissful  pain  ; 

Perchance  some  spotless  soul,  that  sought 
To  roam  the  earth  again  ; 
Some  heart  that  owned  a  mortal  chain 

So  strong  it  could  not  break  above  ;  — 
And  back  is  sent  in  pity  here, 
To  live  an  hour  without  a  tear, 

In  innocence  and  love  ! 


ODE, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE   TENTH  ANNUAL   FAIR  OF   THE   AMERICAN 
INSTITUTE. 

1. 

When  the  banner  of  freedom  first  waved  to  the  breeze, 
And  the  stars  and  the  stripes  were  to  Liberty  given, 
When  the  thunder  of  war  died  away  on  the  seas, 
And  the  olive-bough  bloomed  where  the  deluge  had  driven, 
Columbia  awoke, 
Disenthralled  from  her  yoke, 

Her  brows  bound  with  leaves  from  her  own  mountain  oak, 
And  called  on  her  children  to  wake  once  again, 
Their  altars  to  rear  and  their  rights  to  maintain. 

II. 

From  the  dark  rolling  wave,  at  the  joyous  command, 

First  Commerce  emerged  with  her  white  wings  extended  ; 

She  wreathed  the  old  flag  of  our  own  fatherland, 
Intertwined  with  the  banner  that  Freedom  defended. 


290  ODE. 

While  our  eagle,  that  clung 

To  the  crags  with  her  young, 

Screamed  aloud,  and  aside  her  red  thunderbolt  flung, 
As  the  flag  of  St.  George  and  our  banner  of  stars, 
Wove  a  baldric  of  peace  for  the  temples  of  Mars. 

111. 

Arrayed  in  the  garb  of  her  own  native  skies, 

Next,  Science  came  down,  with  a  rainbow  around  her ; 
While  the  pride  of  a  mother  beamed  forth  from  her  eyes, 
As  she  gazed  on  a  son  who  had  sought  and  had  found  her. 
'Twas  Fulton,  whose  eye 
Saw  his  mother  on  high, 
And  drew  down  the  glory  that  never  shall  die  : 
For  as  long  as  the  sun  in  his  splendour  is  seen, 
His  name  shall  endure,  and  his  laurels  be  green. 

IV. 

From  their  trance  of  delight,  as  the  vision  passed  by, 
The  Arts  sprang  to  life  with  a  thrill  of  devotion  ; 
They  caught  every  hue  as  it  broke  from  the  sky, 
And  went  up  again  through  the  mist  of  the  ocean  ; 
While  the  Iris  that  spanned 
Sea  and  air,  sky  and  land, 
United  the  North  and  the  South  in  a  band  — 
And  ne'er  may  a  son  of  Columbia  be  found 
To  sever  the  tie  which  her  Genius  has  bound ! 


ODE. 


291 


V. 

With  a  sheaf  by  her  side,  and  her  hand  on  the  plough  — 

With  the  furrows  before,  and  with  plenty  attending, 
Next  Ceres  appeared,  —  as  she  smiles  on  us  now,  — 
Her  fruits  and  her  wine  cups  to  Labour  extending  ; 
While  the  Arts  gather  round, 
And  fair  Science  was  crowned, 

And  the  Harvest-home  song  rent  the  air  with  its  sound  : 
"  Thus  ever  may  Science  and  Art,  hand  in  hand, 
Bear  the  emblems  of  Peace  and  of  Hope  to  the  land." 

VI. 

We  have  met  to  rejoice  —  let  us  link  heart  with  heart, 

In  the  festival  hour  which  our  Genius  has  given ; 
And  here  let  us  vow,  ere  we  rise  to  depart, 
By  the  spirits  that  bend  from  their  circles  in  heaven, 
That  true  to  our  trust, 
As  our  fathers  were  first, 

When  they  poured  out  their  life-blood  like  rain  on  the  dust, 
We  will  rally  around  the  old  Liberty  tree, 
While  its  limbs  yield  a  staff  for  the  flag  of  the  free. 


THE   DELUGE. 

"The  fountains  of  the  great  deep  were  broken  up." 

THERE  was  a  change  in  nature  ;  winter  came 
With  an  unwonted  coldness  —  spring  returned  ; 
But  not  with  her  returned  the  voice  of  birds, 
Nor  the  bland  air,  nor  the  green,  dropping  herb  — 
The  rose  nor  violet,  nor  the  genial  glow 
That  crimsons  o'er  the  bounding  veins  of  youth  : 
But  rather  strange  vicissitudes  appeared 
Of  heat  and  cold  unusual  —  till  the  plague 
Spotted  the  ghastly  cheek  of  frighted  man. 
Men  thought,  but  dared  not  speak — 

At  length  there  came 

Through  Leo,  blazing,  the  high-fevered  sun, 
Drying  the  cisterns  where  the  rain  distilled, 
Till  the  poor  tearless  herbage  drooped  and  died. 
Then  came  the  fear  of  death  —  distracting  thoughts 
Strange  prophecies  of  voices  in  the  air, 
And  smothered  shrieks,  as  though  of  drowning  men  - 


THE  DELUGE.  293 

When,  lo  !   a  comet,  gleaming  from  the  north, 
Lighted  the  glazing  stare  of  maniac  eyes. 
Day  dawned,  and  night  succeeded  —  it  was  there 
Like  to  the  flaming  sword,  o'er  Eden  erst 
Extended,  lest  the  impure  should  venture  heaven. 
Day  dawned,  and  night  succeeded  —  still  it  came, 
Fiercer  and  redder,  till  its  fiery  hair 
Veiled  half  the  face  of  heaven  ;  and  not  obscured, 
Though  the  pale  moon  gave  her  reluctant  wealth, 
And  the  stars  showered  their  prodigal  gifts  of  light, 
To  calm  men's  apprehensions.     Still  it  came, 
Till  even  the  sky  of  morning  doffed  its  teints, 
And  sickened  at  the  harbinger  of  wo : 
Still  on  it  came  —  on,  to  its  perihelion. 

Oh,  hope  !  where  now  has  fled  thy  spreading  smile  I 
Where  are  the  iron  nerves,  and  mailed  hearts, 
The  eye  that  never  quailed,  the  blanchless  cheek  ? 
Man  then  encountered  man,  and  muttering,  passed. 
Girls,  with  disordered  locks,  ran  to  and  fro, 
Wringing  their  bloodless  hands — while  mothers  left 
Their  famished  babes,  and  children  left  their  parents, 
Who  rent  their  garments,  and,  blaspheming  loud, 
Tore  the  dry  hair  from  off  their  fevered  brows. 
Some  groped  about  for  graves,  and  drowned  themselves  : 
Strange  fear  !  that  hurries  man  to  drug  with  death 
The  horror  that  must  wake  immortally  ! 


294  THE    DELUGE. 

It  came  —  the  waters  rose —  and  still  it  came, 
And  still  the  waters  rose ;  till  o'er  the  vales 
One  angry  waste  appeared  ;  the  mountain  tops 
Were  covered  with  live  creatures,  faint  with  fears. 
And  now  with  louder,  more  continued  sound, 
Than  the  storm-thunder,  the  huge  crust  of  earth 
Cracked  and  heaved  upward ;  —  from  her  sulphurous  caves 
The  subterranean  waters,  bellowing  forth, 
Rose  like  another  world,  and  whelmed  the  old. 
God's  counter-fiat  spake  —  one  awful  shriek, 
From  all  the  millions  of  Earth's  sinful  mould 
Went  up  to  Heaven,  and  with  it  went  the  sea 
And  every  living  thing.    Earth  trembled  then  : 
Out  rushed  her  central  fires,  which,  suddenly 
Quenched  by  the  world  of  waters,  sent  on  high 
Unfathomable  clouds,  —  primeval  rocks 
Were  split  asunder  —  and  the  marbled  beds 
Drunk  in  the  mingled  lava  ;  beasts  and  birds, 
Forests,  and  towers,  and  palaces  together 
Rushed  to  promiscuous  ruin  ;  the  great  deep 
Threw  up  his  giants  on  the  flinty  rocks, 
And  mixed  their  skeletons  with  all  the  tribes 
That  crawled  upon  his  sands  ;  the  icy  North 
Oped  his  fanged  jaws  to  grasp  the  tropic  beast, 
And  prisoned  it  forever. 

Where  was  now 


THE    DELUGE.  295 

Thy  beauty,  Nature  1  where  thy  hills  and  vales, 

Thy  sunny  uplands,  sprinkled  o'er  with  flocks  1 

Where  the  soft  rippling  brooks,  the  meadow-flowers, 

The  voice,  the  smile  of  woman,  the  loud  laugh 

That  rang  above  the  banquet?  — all  were  gone  ! 

Buried  in  water  —  hopelessly  destroyed  ! 

For  o'er  them  hung  the  stifling  canopy, 

Where  Death  sat  throned,  crammed  with  the  rotting  dead, 

Yet  longing  for  more  food  — while  at  his  side, 

Sin  languished  that  her  votaries  were  no  more  ! 


25 


LOVE   UNCHANGEABLE. 

YES  !  still  I  love  thee  :  —  Time,  who  sets 

His  signet  on  my  brow, 
And  dims  my  sunken  eye,  forgets 

The  heart  he  could  not  bow ;  — 
Where  love,  that  cannot  perish,  grows 
For  one,  alas !  that  little  knows 

How  love  may  sometimes  last ; 

Like  sunshine  wasting  in  the  skies, 

When  clouds  are  overcast. 

The  dew-drop  hanging  o'er  the  rose, 

Within  its  robe  of  light, 
Can  never  touch  a  leaf  that  blows, 

Though  seeming  to  the  sight ; 
And  yet  it  still  will  linger  there, 
Like  hopeless  love  without  despair,  — 

A  snow-drop  in  the  sun  ! 
A  moment  finely  exquisite, 

Alas  !  but  only  one. 


LOVE   UNCHANGEABLE.  297 

I  would  not  have  thy  married  heart 

Think  momently  of  me,  — 
Nor  would  I  tear  the  cords  apart, 

That  bind  me  so  to  thee  ; 
No  !  while  my  thoughts  seem  pure  and  mild, 
Like  dew  upon  the  roses  wild, 

I  would  not  have  thee  know, 
The  stream  that  seems  to  thee  so  still, 

Has  such  a  tide  below  ! 

.Enough !  that  in  delicious  dreams, 

I  see  thee  and  forget  — 
Enough,  that  when  the  morning  beams, 

I  feel  my  eyelids  wet ! 
Yet,  could  I  hope,  when  Time  shall  fall 
The  darkness,  for  creation's  pall, 

To  meet  thee,  —  and  to  love,  — 
1  would  not  shrink  from  aught  below, 

Nor  ask  for  more  above. 


MORAL  BEAUTY. 

Tis  not  alone  in  the  flush  of  morn, 
In  the  cowslip-bell  or  the  blossom  thorn, 
In  noon's  high  hour,  or  twilight's  hush, 
In  the  shadowy  stream,  or  the  roses'  blush, 
Or  in  aught  that  bountiful  Nature  gives, 
That  the  delicate  Spirit  of  Beauty  lives. 

Oh  no !  it  lives,  and  breathes,  and  lies, 
In  a  home  more  pure  than  the  morning  skies ; 
In  the  innocent  heart  it  loves  to  dwell, 
When  it  comes  with  a  sigh  or  a  tear  to  tell 
Sweet  visions  that  flow  from  a  fount  of  love, 
To  mingle  with  all  that  is  pure  above. 

It  dwells  with  the  one  whose  pitying  eye 

Looks  out  on  the  world  in  charity ; 

Whose  generous  hand  delights  to  heal 

The  wounds  that  suffering  mourners  feel, 

Without  a  wish  or  a  hope  or  thought 

That  light  should  shine  on  the  deeds  it  wrought. 


MORAL    BEAUTY.  299 

It  dwells  in  the  heart  that  naught  inspire?, 
But  manly  feelings,  and  high  desires ; 
Where  nothing  can  come  like  a  selfish  dream, 
When  visions  of  glory  around  it  gleam, 
Proud  visions  that  show  to  the  gifted  mind, 
The  boundless  sphere  of  the  human  kind. 

Sweet  Spirit  of  Beauty !  my  dreams  are  thine, 
But  1  lose  thee  not  when  the  day-beams  shine  ; 
Thy  image  is  still  to  my  constant  gaze, 
At  midnight  hour  or  noontide  blaze  ; 
And  none  but  one  with  a  heart  unsold, 
Can  know  the  bliss  which  thy  lovers  hold, 


25* 


TO   GENEVIEVE. 

WHENE'ER  the  lightsome  dance,  and  mad'ning  glare 
Of  Fashion's  gay  assemblage,  shall  allure 
Thy  gentle  wishes,  that  are  always  pure, 

And  lead  thee  to  eclipse  the  brightest  there ; 

Amidst  the  siren  smiles  that  flatterers  wear, 

Remember  then,  —  1  know  thou'lt  not  forget,  — 
The  lesson  which  I  taught  thee  when  we  met, 

Where  the  still  moonlight  as  a  carpet  lay, 
For  airy  forms  to  move  on  —  when  the  dews 

Hung  tremulously  bright,  like  that  array 
Of  planetary  glories,  that  diffuse 

Rays  from  their  countless  sources  ever  bright, 

Gemming  the  ebon  coronal  of  night ; 
For  I  would  have  thee  feel,  that  Nature's  charms 

Can  lull  thy  restless  thoughts,  that  thou  canst  draw 

From  her  exhaustless  fountain,  evermore, 

High  thoughts  to  shield  thee  from  the  wild  alarms 


TO    GENEVIEVE.  301 

And  mad  distractions  of  a  world  like  this ; 
That,  should  thy  heart  aspire  to  present  bliss, 

The  thought  were  vain  — for  pleasure,  like  a  shade, 
Will  fly  before  thee,  and  elude  thy  hold  ; 
That,  Nature's  charms  alone  are  manifold, 

In  all  the  simple  guilelessness  displayed 
Of  vestal  innocence  —that  she  can  mould 

Thy  passions  so,  that  they  shall  be  thy  aid. 
Thus  shall  thy  days  in  happiness  grow  old, 

Thy  soul  high  towering  in  its  flight  sublime  ; 
And  should  thy  joys  on  earth  grow  dark  and  cold, 

Thy  heart  may  find  a  rest  above  the  cares  of  time  1 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

THE  dews  that  tremble  on  the  flowers, 

When  moonlight  drops  its  silvery  veil, 
Are  only  tears  of  tristful  hours, 

That  weep  to  leave  the  nightingale. 
Then,  while  the  light-winged  hours  are  weeping, 

Shall  beauty  close  her  eyes, 
When  Love,  within  her  bosom  sleeping, 

Can  only  dream  of  ecstacies  1 

Oh  !    Mary,  yield  to  music's  power, 

And  listen  to  thy  lover's  prayer, 
The  fragrance  of  the  woodbine  bower 

Is  waiting  to  receive  us  there ; 
And  shall  we  live,  while  life  is  fleeting, 

Without  one  hour  of  love, 
When  swelling  hearts  with  rapture  meeting, 

May  wing  their  vows  of  truth  above  1 

But  if  thy  faith,  so  warmly  plighted, 
Be  changed  for  one  less  truly  thine, 


STANZAS.  303 

If  Love  must  see  his  chaplet  blighted, 

And  Hope  desert  her  favoured  shrine  ; 
Let  not  the  sigh  of  sorrow  wake  thee, 

Thy  lover's  grief  to  tell, 
Whose  breaking  heart  could  ne'er  forsake  thee  — 

Whose  tongue  could  never  say,  farewell ! 


LINES, 

Written  off  Point  Judith  Light-House. 

THE  skies  have  roJled  their  clouds  away, 

To  drink  the  summer's  cooler  breeze, 
Evening  weighs  down  the  eye  of  day, 
Chiding  the  idling  twilight  ray, 

Among  the  silent  trees  ;  — 
And  look  above  !  how  darkly  blue 

The  arch  of  night,  with  one  lone  cloud, 
Parting  for  stars  to  glimmer  through  ! 

The  waves  are  calm,  —  the  wind  is  still, 
While  the  full  moon,  in  glory  proud, 

Rides  like  Aurora  o'er  the  hill ! 
Alas !  that  aught  of  grief  should  lower, 

To  cloud  the  bliss  of  such  an  hour. 

Where  yon  pale  spire  is  dimly  seen, 
Robed  in  a  misty  veil  of  light, 


LINES. 

Glancing  its  beacon-rays  between 

The  blended  hues  of  day  and  night ; 
1  marked  a  sea-bird  leave  her  bed, 

To  light  her  pathway  through  the  skies ; 
Lured  by  the  dazzling  form  she  fled, 

And  fluttering  round,  in  wild  surprise, 
Dashed  madly  at  the  vision  fair, 

Then  shrieked,  and  poured  her  spirit  there. 

Oh,  what  a  glowing  image  this, 

Of  man's  inconstancy  below, 
Too  restless  here  to  heed  the  bliss 

He  might  with  calm  contentment  know  : 
But  like  the  sea-bird  charmed  away 
By  Hope's  destructive  meteor  ray, 

He  soars  above  the  halcyon  wave 
Of  sweet  content  —  and  hails  afar, 

Some  brighter  form  his  passions  crave ; 
But  finds,  alas  !  the  glittering  star 

That  lured  him  to  a  fairer  day, 
The  death-light  of  a  fevered  brain  ; 

And  feels,  too  late,  that  Hope  decay, 
Which  blighted,  never  blooms  again  ! 


GULNARE. 

DAUGHTER  of  Beauty  —  Gulnare  ! 

Queen  of  the  delicate  graces, 
Whose  smile  is  a  minstrel  to  charm  away  care, 

And  lighten  wherever  it  traces, 
Health  to  thy  cheek,  where  the  mantle  of  morn 
Flushes  with  rosiest  teints  to  adorn. 

Long  may  the  zone  that  entwines 

Purity,  mildness,  affection, 
Shed  the  same  lustre  as  constantly  shines 

To  hallow  a  woman's  perfection  ; 
And  long  may  the  smile  that  illumines  thy  brow, 
Live  on  as  it  lives  in  its  loveliness  now  ! 

The  lily  may  die  on  thy  cheek, 
With  freshness  no  longer  adorning  ; 

The  rose  that  envelopes  its  whiteness  may  seek 
To  take  back  her  mantle  of  morning ; 


GULNARE. 

Yet  still  will  Love's  tenderness  beam  from  thine  eye, 
And  ask  for  that  homage  no  heart  can  deny. 

Thy  dark  hair  may  blanch  where  it  bends 

Over  eyes  of  cerulean  hue, 
That  melt  with  the  softness  the  Summer-moon  lends, 

To  mellow  her  pathway  of  blue  ; 
Yet  still  will  1  love  thee,  and  sweetly  repose 
On  the  bosom  where  true  love  with  constancy  grows. 


SONG, 

WRITTEN  FOR  AN  ANNUAL  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  MASSACHU 
SETTS  CHARITABLE  MECHANIC  ASSOCIATION. 

Oh,  welcome  the  moment,  when  life's  troubled  dreams 

Give  way  to  the  rapture  of  soul ; 
When  true-hearts  are  met  where  Benevolence  beams, 

And  nothing  but  Love  can  control : 
When  the  joys  that  we  feel,  with  the  cares  that  have  flown, 

So  mingle  their  sunshine  and  shade, 
That  Fancy  can  bask  in  a  blaze  of  her  own, 

And  worship  what  Genius  hath  made. 

We  have  met  once  again,  and  long  may  we  share 

The  union  of  Friendship  and  Love, 
While  our  hearts  burn  as  one,  through  the  midnight  of  care, 

As  the  galaxy  brightens  above. 
Here,  then,  let  us  throw  off  the  mantle  of  wo, 

And  drink  to  the  present  and  past ; 
Let  a  bumper  go  round,  and  our  glasses  o'erflow, 

Till  happiness  crown  us  at  last. 


SONG.  309 

Should  anguish  and  sorrow  o'ershadow  our  way, 

And  Hope's  phantom  beauty  beguile  ; 
While  Charity  lends  us  her  generous  ray, 

We  will  live  in  the  light  of  her  smile. 
Thus,  while  darkness  envelopes  our  cold  wintry  skies, 

And  clouds  hang  their  tempests  between, 
The  Aurora  commands  her  own  Iris  to  rise, 

And  hallow  the  desolate  scene. 


I'VE  LISTENED  AT  EVE. 

I'VE  listened  at  eve,  by  a  tranquil  lake, 
To  the  sweetest  song  that  love  could  wake, 
When  the  moon  shone  down  through  the  blue  serene, 
To  silver  the  leaves  of  the  woodland  green. 

I've  listened  at  morn,  when  the  west  wind  came, 

To  cool  the  roses's  blush  of  shame, 

When  the  nightingale's  voice  through  the  tangled  trees, 

Gladdened  the  bosom  with  ecstacies. 

But  ah  !  when  I  heard  thy  eloquent  lay, 
It  drove  every  charm  of  their  music  away  ; 
And  1  thought  some  spirit  had  left  the  spheres, 
To  soothe  our  sorrows,  and  dry  our  tears. 

Thy  lay  was  like  the  ^Eolian  lyre's, 
When  an  angel  breathes  o'er  its  silken  wires ; 
For  memory  slept  with  the  rising  strain, 
In  a  dream  of  bliss  till  it  ceased  again. 


FLORA. 

WHEN  Flora,  in  her  earliest  days, 
Taught  her  young  buds  to  blossom  round  ; 

She  bade  them  freshen,  as  the  rays 
Of  morning  glittering  o'er  the  ground. 

She  chose  the  loveliest  that  grew, 
And  placed  them  at  Apollo's  shrine, 

For  they  were  fresh  and  budding  new, 
And  worthy  of  the  power  divine. 

Apollo  pleased  with  such  a  boon, 
Attuned  his  lyre  to  passion's  strain, 

And  taught  young  echo,  at  the  tune, 
To  wing  her  airy  flight  again. 

But  Venus  saw  what  Love  had  done, 
And,  jealous  of  her  Flora's  power, 

Transformed  her  e'er  another  sun, 
To  beauty's  passion-stricken  flower. 
26* 


312  FLORA. 

When  morning  came,  Apollo's  rays 
Flew  quickly  where  they  loved  to  rest, 

But  soon  he  found  their  cheering  blaze 
Was  beaming  on  a  lily's  breast. 

And  where  her  smile  once  played  alone, 
And  taught  the  god  of  light  to  smile, 

A  dew-drop  glistened,  while  his  song 
By  her  unheeded  was  the  while. 

And  now  at  summer  time,  e'er  morn 
Breaks  beauteous  in  the  glowing  sky, 

The  brilliant  queen  looks  down  upon 
Her  lily  bending  tearfully. 

But  ever  flies  as  light  appears, 
Ashamed  to  meet  the  god  of  day, 

Who  always  looks  her  into  tears, 
Until  she  weeps  herself  away  I 


AN    INSCRIPTION. 

WHENE'ER  tumultuous  thought  is  still, 
And  Peace  resumes  her  wonted  reign, 

And  Meditation  lulls  the  mind 
To  quietude  again ; 

Whene'er  thy  wearied  thought  shall  soar, 
Far,  far  above  this  world  of  wo, 

While  mild  imagination  wreathes 
For  thee  her  seraph  bow  — 

When  each  harmonious  page  recalls 

Some  friend  who  left  a  record  there, 
Some  heart  that  often  winged  to  thee 
An  echo  of  its  prayer  — 

May  this,  if  chance  should  lead  thine  eye 
Its  long  forgotten  lines  to  see, 

Awake  a  momentary  thought 
Of  friendship  and  of  me. 


ART   THOU   HAPPY,   LOVELY   LADY! 

ART  thou  happy,  lovely  lady, 

In  the  splendour  round  thee  thrown, 

Can  the  jewels  that  array  thee, 
Bring  the  peace  which  must  have  flown  ? 

By  the  vows  which  thou  hast  spoken, 

By  the  faith  which  thou  hast  broken, 

1  ask  of  thee  no  token, 

That  thy  heart  is  sad  and  lone. 

There  was  one  that  loved  thee,  Mary ! 

There  was  one  that  fondly  kept 
A  hope  which  could  not  vary, 

Till  in  agony  it  slept 
He  loved  thee,  dearly  loved  thee, 
And  thought  his  passion  moved  thee, 
But  disappointment  proved  thee, 

What  love  has  often  wept. 


TO  ELLEN. 

WHEN  thine  eye  is  bright  with  joy, 
When  thy  cheek's  pure  mantle  tells 

How  glad  the  heart  within  thee, 
While  the  tide  of  pleasure  swells, 

1  would  not  have  thee  turn  aside 
To  think  of  pain  and  sorrow, 

And  in  thy  happy  moments  think 
Of  agony  to-morrow. 

Life's  sunny  path  is  full  of  flowers, 
But  thorns  are  scattered  there, 

Then  cautiously  pursue  thy  way, 
And  while  secure,  beware. 

The  garb  that  Wisdom  dresses  in, 

Looks  darkly  to  the  young, 
But  time  will  show  how  brightly  glow 

The  jewels  round  her  hung. 


316  TO     ELLEN. 

Drink  thy  fill  from  Pleasure's  fountain, 

In  innocence  and  bliss, 
That  other  days  may  yield  thee 

All  the  happiness  of  this. 

And  long  in  this  tumultuous  world, 
May  tearless  smiles  attend  thee, 

And  angels  guard  thy  gentle  heart, 
And  Providence  befriend  thee. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

THERE'S  one  1  love,  as  childhood  loves 

The  flower  that  blossoms  to  the  eye  ; 
But  I  have  that  within  that  moves, 

And  e'er  has  moved  like  destiny. 

Few  days  will  pass,  and  I  shall  lie, 

Perhaps  without  a  stone  to  tell, 
That  I  have  lived,  that  all  must  die, 

And  bid  this  lovely  world  farewell. 

Perchance  a  few  may  shed  a  tear, 

From  terror  of  their  own  sad  lot  * 
But  that  which  moulders  on  the  bier, 

Is  reckless  that  it  is  forgot. 

The  eye  whose  look  was  friendship's  voice, 
The  hand  whose  pressure  made  me  thrill, 

The  smile  which  made  my  heart  rejoice, 
Shall  live  when  that  sad  heart  is  still. 

The  long,  rank  grass  shall  deck  my  grave, 
And  idle  feet  profane  the  ground, 


PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

As  o'er  the  thoughtless  and  the  brave, 
Earth  echoes  back  her  funeral  sound. 

The  sun  will  spread  his  yellow  beams, 
Regardless  of  my  dying  day, 

As  though  an  insect  of  the  streams 
Had  perished  in  his  scorching  ray. 

And  men  shall  fill  the  place  I  fill, 
And  think  of  death  as  I  now  think, 

And  tread  with  careless  footsteps,  still 
Regardless  of  destruction's  brink. 

From  dust  to  dust,  till  ruin  sinks 

This  mighty  globe,  shall  man  go  on, 

Still  adding  to  creation's  links, 
The  same  corruption  which  begun. 

The  soul  may  sleep  in  endless  night, 
Or  wake,  as  infants  wake,  to  life  ; 

Another  sun  to  yield  its  light, 
Another  world  with  sorrow  rife. 

An  everlasting  death  is  ours, 

From  youth  to  age,  one  dull  decay ; 

A  shadow  moving  among  flowers, 
The  sepulchre  of  yesterday ! 


CORRESPONDENCES. 

Nor  perchance 

If  I  were  not  thus  taught  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay.— WORDSWORTH. 

THE  Bird  of  Paradise,  with  wings 
Of  cherub  beauty,  never  sings 

In  sorrow  nor  in  mirth, 
Till  death  comes  o'er  him  like  a  cloud :  — 
And  then,  as  if  he  spurned  the  proud 
Destroyer,  mounts  and  sings  aloud, 
And  lifeless,  in  his  golden  shroud, 

Falls  mightily  to  earth. 
Like  him,  'twere  well,  if  life  could  pass 
Unheard  amidst  the  senseless  mass, 

That  feel  no  joy  but  hate  ;  — 
A  living  pestilence,  that  flings 
Its  poison  breath  o'er  purer  things 

To  blight  and  desolate. 

The  tree  upon  the  ocean  side, 
Grown  up  before  the  blast, 
27 


320  CORRESPONDENCES. 

Without  one  leaf  to  face  the  tide, 

Clings  firmly  to  the  last ; 
And  though  the  storm  cannot  uptear, 

But  strips  the  trunk  of  branches  there, 
And  makes  it  yield  to  time ;  — 

Its  southern  branches  greener  grow, 
And  woo  the  sunbeams  as  they  flow 

From  out  a  milder  clime  :  — 

Oh,  when  is  Nature  ever  mute 

To  happiness  or  wo! 
Her  images  may  always  suit 

Whatever  fate  we  know. 
1  read  in  happy  things  that  move, 

Our  hearts  were  only  made  to  love ; 
And  midst  the  torrent's  burst, 

The  rock  that  lifts  its  reckless  power, 
Proclaims  that  Faith  in  trial's  hour, 

Which  still  may  bear  the  worst. 


DREAMS. 

OH,  many  and  beautiful  dreams  are  mine,— 
Thanks  to  the  gentle  spirit  that  brings 

In  dewy  sleep,  such  light  to  shine, 
As  only  shines  from  her  angel  wings : 

Visions  of  love !  too  pure  for  earth, 

With  voices  that  come  from  the  quiet  sky, 

And  music  that  tells  of  its  seraph  birth, 
Filling  my  bosom  with  ecstacy. 

Sometimes,  I'm  led  by  her  gentle  hand, 
Through  gardens,  and  groves,  and  delicious  vales, 

Where  silvery  streamlets  thread  the  land, 
And  ripe  fruit  swings  in  the  fragrant  gales';  — 

There,  beautiful  forms  are  ever  seen, 

So  happy,  —  there's  nothing  so  joyous  here; 

Bounding  away  over  lawns  of  green, 
Like  lambs  in  the  flush  of  the  vernal  year. 


322  DREAMS. 

At  times  1  bend  o'er  a  river's  brink, 

Where  the  waters  move  like  a  mass  of  light, 

And  I  scoop  it  up  in  my  hand  to  drink, 

When  it  gives  to  my  vision  intenser  sight :  — 

Then  millions  of  unknown  flowers  upspring, 
Loading  the  air  with  their  spicy  breath, 

Each  flower  the  type  of  some  living  thing, 
That  glows  with  beauty,  and  knows  no  death. 

Sometimes  I'm  led  by  her  angel-hand, 

Through  an  aura  that  chills  like  the  death  of  love, 
And  I  climb  the  clouds  in  the  skies  above, 

And  look  below  on  the  sea  and  land : 

The  clouds  1  climb  are  like  hills  of  snow, — 
Huge  mountain-piles  o'er  which  I  roam,  — 

And  I  gaze  on  a  silver  sea  below, 
Where  the  waves  leap  up  in  their  lustrous  foam  : 

And  then  the  skies,  like  a  dome  of  ice, 
Crackle  and  fall  in  a  crystal  shower, 

And  1  seem  to  wake  midst  a  vine-clad  bower, 
With  my  angel-guide  in  a  paradise. 


ODE, 


ON   THE  DEATH   OF  SIR   WALTER  SCOTT. 


OH  'morning-bright  Apollo  !'  when  thy  car 

Bore  thee  away  from  where  the  huntress  weeping, 
Poured  her  chaste  tears  o'er  Latmus,  while  lay  sleeping 

Endymion  veiled  in  glory  like  a  star,  — 
And  left  the  marbled  Athens  to  awake, 

As  from  the  sleep  of  death,  in  grief  to  feel 
The  chill  that  even  Phidias  could  not  wake, 

The  wounds  that  breathing  Genius  could  not  heal. 
Oh  'morning-bright  Apollo  !'  when  thy  bow 

Smote  with  its  shaft  the  Python  that  upsprung 
From  Superstition's  stagnant  pool  below, 

Where  Ignorance  lay  brooding  with  her  young ; 
Where  fell  thy  brighter  beams ;  whose  heaven-strung  lyre 
Rekindled  to  their  touch  with  spirit-burning  fire  ? 

II. 

Thou,  Albion  !  o'er  thy  snowy  hills, 
Keceivd'st  the  flood  that  rolled  along, 


324  ODE. 

One  ocean,  from  a  thousand  rills 

Of  tributary  song ! 
Thy  « well  of  English  undefiled,' 

Immortal  Chaucer  !  swelled  the  stream, 

Where  rolling  on,  the  poet's  dream 
Upon  its  current  smiled  ;  i 

Reflecting  back  a  monument  in  Alpine  grandeur  piled. 

III. 

Then  Spenser  caught  the  inspiring  lay, 

And  roamed  with  wild  romance  awhile  ; 
He  held  the  prism  to  a  ray, 

And  made  the  day-beam  smile : 
Wake,  Albion  !  for  a  brighter  day 

Is  breaking  o'er  thine  isle  ; 
Melpomene  has  seized  the  lyre, 

And  gathered  from  all  bards  her  own, 
Ford,  Marston,  Jonson,  Fletcher,  lit  the  fire, 

Around  the  vestal  throne. 
But  there  was  one  who  stood  alone, 

Supreme  in  power,  whose  magic  wand 
Swept  time  away,  and  gazed  beyond  ! 

Before  whose  feet  the  passions  knelt 
Obedient,  as  his  humour  dealt. 
Immortal  Shakspeare  !  it  was  thine 

In  one  resistless  bolt  to  throw 


ODE.  325 


The  lightnings  of  the  human  mind, 

That  flash  for  weal  or  wo  ;  — 
To  rouse  the  dead  on  Lethe's  wharf, 

Arch-angel  of  the  human  kind  ! 
To  bear  with  thee  the  immortal  mind, 

Among  the  golden  stars  to  roam, 
Where  choiring  with  the  cherubim, 

The  spirit  finds  its  home. 
High-priest  of  nature  !  it  was  thine, 
To  burst  the  fetters  that  confine 

Ambition's  heaving  wings ! 
Rent  by  the  lightning  of  thy  power, 
They  fretted  on  the  earth  an  hour, 
Then  mounted  higher  and  still  higher, 
The  Theban  Eagle  and  his  lyre, 

With  thunder  in  its  strings. 

IV. 

Oh  Albion  !  it  were  vain  to  try, 
A  record  of  thy  great  to  give  ;  — 

Throned  on  their  immortality, 
In  glory  let  them  live  ! 

For  Milton,  it  may  well  suffice, 

To  live  in  his  own  Paradise. 

But  Scotia  !  why  dost  thou 

Rise  through  the  mountain  mist,  in  form 
The  rainbow  of  a  summer  storm, 


326  ODE. 

With  smiles  upon  thy  brow  1 
And  who  is  he  thou  lead'st  along, 

In  russet  brown,  of  careless  air  1 
Tis  Caledonia's  child  of  song  — 

Burns,  with  his  lyre  is  there  ! 
Where  crowds  of  highland  maids  appear, 
With  every  one  a  smile  and  tear. 

V. 

But  there  is  one,  around  whose  brow 

A  dazzling  glory  streams  afar — 
Throned  as  immortal  spirits  are, 

A  seraph  even  now : 
His  head  encircled  with  a  crown, 

Brighter  than  mortal  ever  wore, 
The  bard  that  first  outstript  renown, 

And  ever  kept  before  ! 
See,  see,  he  strikes  the  golden  lyre,  — 
There's  magic  in  his  look  of  fire  — 
Forgotten  ages  rise  at  his  command, 
Around  him  crowd  a  long-forgotten  band  : 

Strike  yet  again  the  strings  ! 

Lo  !  clad  in  steel  the  feudal  kings, 

Each  pibroch  note  to  battle  brings, 

And  "  Marmion  "  is  the  cry ! 
Far  flash  the  mingled  battle  brands, 
Red  falchions  streaming  in  their  hands, 


ODE.  327 

Midst  screams  of  death  and  loud  commands, 
And  shouts  of  victory  ! 

VI. 

But  now  the  lyre,  whose  strings  could  tell 

The  tales  that  sorrow  loved  so  well, 
Is  dead  —  with  it  has  died  the  border  theme  ; 

While  Scotland  mourns  on  every  hill, 

In  every  glen,  by  every  rill  — 
More  vocal  than  Sicilian  streams, 
When  Dorian  music  died  with  Bion's  heavenly  dreams. 

VII. 

Harp  of  the  north,  farewell ! 
Enchantress  of  the  magic  shell, 
Whose  notes  rang  wildly  from  Hellvelyn's  height, 
And  woke  the  echoes  of  Benlomond  sleeping, 
With  every  muse  of  Scotland  round  thee,  weeping, 
A  long,  a  last,  good  night ! 

VIII. 

Well,  Scotia,  may'st  thou  wail ! 

Strike  yet  a  louder  string, 
For  funeral  music  rises  o'er  the  gale, 

From  Albion,  on  the  wing,  — 
And  Erin's  lyre  is  hushed 

To  all  but  sorrowing. 


328  ODE. 

The  rose  and  thistle  blend  their  dewy  tears, 
With  the  green  shamrock's,  while  from  far  away, 
Britannia's  genius  o'er  her  snow-cliffs,  hears 
Columbia's  funeral  lay, 

IX, 

Harp  of  the  north,  farewell  I  —  no  more  shall  rise 
The  music  of  thy  rich,  harmonious  numbers  ; 
The  soul  that  gave  thee  life,  has  sought  its  skies, 
The  bard  who  took  thee  from  the  willow,  slumbers. 
Henceforth,  in  grief  let  Ettric's  shepherd  wear  thee, 

Or  else,  with  cypress  wreathed  for  future  years, 
Back  to  the  willows  let  the  minstrel  bear  thee, 

And  mix  his  parting  farewell  with  our  tears.. 


THE  POET. 

A  POET'S  heart  is  always  young-, 

And  flows  with  love's  unceasing  streams  ; 
Oh,  many  are  the  lays  unsung, 

Yet  treasured  with  his  dreams ! 

The  spirits  of  a  thousand  flowers,  — 
The  loved, — the  lost,  —  his  heart  enshrine; 

The  memory  of  blessed  hours, 
And  impulses  divine. 

Like  water  in  a  crystal  urn, 

Sealed  up  forever,  as  a  gem, 
That  feels  the  sunbeams  while  they  burn, 

But  never  yields  to  them ;  — 

His  heart  may  fire  — his  fevered  brain 
May  kindle  with  concentrate  power, 

But  kind  affections  still  remain 
To  gild  his  darkest  hour. 


330  THE    POET. 

The  world  may  chide  —  the  heartless  sneer,  — 

And  coldly  pass  the  Poet  by, 
Who  only  sheds  a  sorrowing  tear 

O'er  man's  humanity. 

From  broken  hearts  and  silent  grief, 

From  all  unutterable  scorn, 
He  draws  the  balm  of  sweet  relief, 

For  sufferers  yet  unborn. 

His  lyre  is  strung  with  shattered  strings,  — 
The  heart-strings  of  the  silent  dead,  — 

Where  memory  hovers  with  her  wings, 
Where  grief  is  canopied. 

And  yet  his  heart  is  always  young, 
And  flows  with  love's  unceasing  streams  ; 

Oh,  many  are  the  lays  unsung, 
And  treasured  with  his  dreams  ! 


MOZART'S    REQUIEM. 

THE  tongue  of  the  vigilant  clock  tolled  une, 

In  a  deep  and  hollow  tone, 
The  shrouded  moon  looked  out  upon 
A  cold,  dark  region,  more  cheerless  and  dun, 

By  the  lurid  light  that  shone. 

Mozart  now  rose  from  a  restless  bed, 

And  his  heart  was  sick  with  care, 
Though  long  had  he  wooingly  sought  to  wed 
Sweet  sleep  —  'twas  in  vain,  for  the  coy  maid  fled, 

Though  he  followed  her  everywhere. 

He  knelt  to  the  God  of  his  worship  then, 

And  breathed  a  fervent  prayer ; 
'Twas  balm  to  his  soul,  and  he  rose  again 
With  a  strengthened  spirit,  but  started  when 

He  marked  a  stranger  there. 

He  was  tall,  —  the  stranger  who  gazed  on  him, 
Wrapped  high  in  a  sable  shroud ;  — 

'28 


32  MOZART'S  REQUIEM. 

His  cheek  was  pale,  and  his  eye  was  dim, 
And  the  melodist  trembled  in  every  limb, 
The  while  his  heart  beat  loud. 

"  Mozart !  there  is  one  whose  errand  1  bear, 

That  cannot  be  known  to  thee ; 
He  grieves  for  a  friend,  and  would  have  thee  prepare 
A  requiem  blending  a  mournful  air, 

With  the  richest  harmony." 

"  I'll  furnish  the  requiem,"  Mozart  cried, 
"  When  this  moon  has  waned  away !" 
The  stranger  bowed,  and  no  word  replied,  — 
But  fled  like  the  shade  on  a  mountain  side, 
When  the  sun  withdraws  his  ray. 

Mozart  grew  pale  as  the  vision  fled, 

And  his  heart  beat  fast  with  fear  ; 
He  knew  'twas  a  messenger  sent  from  the  dead, 
To  warn  him  that  soon  he  must  make  his  bed, 

In  the  darksome  sepulchre. 

He  knew  that  the  days  of  his  life  were  told, 

And  his  spirit  was  faint  within  ; 
The  blood  through  his  bosom  lapsed  slowly  and  cold, 
While  the  lamp  of  life  could  barely  hold 

The  flame  that  was  flickering. 


MOZART'S   REQUIEM.  333 

Yet  he  went  to  his  task  with  a  cheerful  zeal, 

While  his  days  and  nights  were  one ; 
He  spake  not,  —  he  moved  not,  —  but  only  to  kneel, 
With  the  holy  prayer:  —  "Oh  God !  I  feel 

'Tis  best  thy  will  be  done  !" 

He  gazed  on  his  loved  one  who  cherished  him  well, 

And  weepingly  hung  o'er  him  :  — 
"  This  music  will  chime  with  my  funeral  knell, 
And  my  spirit  shall  float  with  the  passing  bell, 

On  the  notes  of  my  Requiem  !" 

The  cold  moon  waned  —  on  that  cheerless  day 

The  stranger  appeared  once  more :  — 
Mozart  had  finished  the  requiem  lay, 
But  ere  the  last  notes  had  died  away, 

His  spirit  had  gone  before ! 


ODE, 

SUNG  AT  THE    CELEBRATION  OF   LAYING   THE  CORNER   STONE 
OF  BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT,   CHARLESTOWN,  MASS. 

LET  Freedom's  banner  swell  with  patriot  pride, 
While  glory's  iron  heralds  proclaim  along  the  shore, 

The  Day  when  Albion  crimsoned  Charles's  tide, 
And  Bunker  shook  beneath  the  battle's  roar : 
How  majestic  the  spirit  that  rode  upon  her  thunder, 
Whose  bolts  indignant  broke  oppression's  chain  asunder ! 
When  first  a  yeoman  band, 
The  bulwark  of  the  land, 
Like  monarch  oaks  withstood 
The  dark  contending  flood, 

And  bought  with  blood  a  freeman's  rights,  our  heritage  to  be. 
Huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  ! 
Our  Genius  gave  the  mandate,  declaring  we  were  free, 
Huzza  !  huzza !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  ! 
And  Independence  sealed  the  high  decree. 


ODE. 


Arise  !  arise  !  ye  patriot  spirits  rise  ! 
And  hail  the  glorious  morn,  when  your  star  of  freedom  rose; 

When  Bunker  hurled  her  lightning,  like  the  skies, 
And  poured  a  flaming  torrent  on  her  foes  ; 
When  our  sires,  our  gallant  sires,  their  dearest  birthright 

shielded, 

And  wrote  our  magna-carta  in  the  sacred  blood  they  yielded  ; 
Whose  monument  shall  stand 
In  Alpine  glory,  grand  ; 
Where  our  mountain  bird  shall  soar, 
When  around  the  tempests  roar, 
Their  lifted  pile's  gigantic  strength,  exultingly  to  see. 
Huzza  !  huzza  !  &c.  &c.  &c. 

Should  hostile  legions  darken  round  the  land, 
Your  rock-encompassed  shore  presuming  to  invade  ; 
Thy  towering  temple,  Liberty  !  would  stand, 
To  blast  thy  fell  oppressors  with  its  shade  : 
In  grandeur  unrivalled,  the  pillared  dome  ascending, 
Shall  strengthen  on  from  age  to  age,  our  fathers'  fame  extend- 

ing; 

While  round  thee,  fanes'  decay, 
Exempt  from  ruin's  sway, 
Thy  stately  front  sublime, 
Shall  stand  the  proof  of  time, 

And  midst  its  beating  storms,  secure,  unshaken  ever  be  ! 
Huzza  !  Huzza  !  &c.  &c.  &c. 
28* 


J336  ODE. 

Arise !  Arise  !  ye  patriot-spirits,  rise  ! 

The  Jubilee  of  glory  demands  a  nation's  song ; 
Triumphant  music,  wake,  with  glad  surprise, 

Till  echo  every  rapturous  strain  prolong  :  — 
Let  the  clarion  of  Fame,  from  shore  to  shore,  be  sounded, 
And  io  Pseans  ring,  through  Heaven's  high  arch,  unbounded  ! 
Let  the  trumpet  proudly  swell ; 
Wake,  wake  the  inspiring  shell ! 
While  the  rosy  cup  goes  round, 
With  ruby  nectar  crowned, 
And  we  drink  to  them  who  nursed  with  blood  our  drooping 

freedom  tree ! 
Huzza!  huzza!  &c.  &c.  &c. 


ODE, 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,   1828. 
At  the  request  of  the  Typographical  Association  of  Baltimore. 

LET  the  voice  of  the  Nation  go  forth  ! 

Let  the  roar  of  your  cannon  proclaim 
From  the  East  and  the  West,  from  the  South  and  the  North, 

The  pride  of  Columbia's  name  ! 
The  chain  of  Oppression  was  yours, 

And  Tyranny  marked  you  her  slaves  — 
But  O  !  while  an  oak  in  the  forest  endures, 

Or  a  pine  on  the  mountain-top  waves, 
The  birth-day  of  Freedom  shall  ring  round  the  land, 
And  millions  of  hearts  shall  for  Liberty  stand. 

Let  the  trumpet  awake  with  its  breath, 

Where  the  star-spangled  banner  unfurled  — 

'Tis  the  voice  that  once  summoned  your  fathers  to  death, 
When  the  lightnings  of  vengeance  were  hurled  : 


338  ODE. 

O  ne'er  let  the  war-cry,  that  burst 

From  the  brave,  when  they  rushed  to  the  fight, 
Die  away  on  the  shore,  where  the  thunderbolt  first 

Broke  the  cloud  of  our  Liberty's  light  — 
When  the  Throne  of  Oppression  was  rent  by  the  blast, 
As  the  hurricane-uproar  of  victory  past. 

Remember  that  ages  unborn, 

Will  look  through  the  vista  of  time  — 
And  the  spirit  that  welcomes  this  glorious  morn, 

Shall  never  be  tarnished  with  crime  ! 
While  Commerce  has  wings  for  the  sea, 

While  Wealth  opens  channels  for  trade ; 
While  the  heart  of  our  country  beats  nobly  and  free, 

Not  a  star  of  its  glory  shall  fade :  — 
Then  swear  to  be  just,  while  a  true  heart  remains 
To  gaze  on  the  giant  that  broke  from  his  chains  ! 

Ye  are  free  !  —  let  your  gratitude  rise  — 

Ye  are  great!  — be  ye  true  to  your  trust ;  — 
Your  greatness  descended  alone  from  the  skies, 

Whence,  the  strength  of  your  Liberty  must ! 
Then  swear  by  your  patriot  sires, 

By  the  blood  that  was  spilt  for  this  day, 
That  ne'er  while  your  hearts  burn  with  Liberty's  fires, 

Will  you  barter  your  birthright  away ! 
That  WASHINGTON'S  spirit  may  witness  the  deed, 
And  smile  that  his  children  were  fit  to  be  freed. 


DESPAIR. 

AWAY,  thou  shadowy  form  of  air, 
False  siren  Hope  !  whose  wanton  smile 
Lights  to  uncertain  joy,  awhile, 
That  the  black  midnight  of  the  soul, 
May  work  intenser  dole  ; 
But  come,  Despair ! 
From  thy  dark  infinite  of  wo, 
Where  brood  the  fiends  of  hell — 
Where  tortured  wretches  yell 
In  misery  below ; 

Where,  racked  in  bloodless  agony,  the  heart 
Crusts  with  remorse,  and  feels  the  dart 
Corroding  in  its  festered  bed, 

With  the  twice  damning  thought,  that  self  the  death- 
bolt  sped  ! 

Spirit !  whose  light  is  death, 
Whose  shroud-like  wings,  outspread, 
O'ercanopy  my  struggling  dreams 
With  harrowing  dread, 


340  DESPAIR. 

When  vampyres  banquet  on  ray  breath, 

Or  when  the  night-hag  frights  me  into  screams  — 

While  with  her  lank  and  sinewy  arms, 

She  hugs  me,  till  her  working  charms 

Dry  up  the  brain,  and  bid  the  life-blood  stay ! 

Thou,  who  bestrid'st  the  whirlwind  of  the  soul, 

And  fright'st  away 

Thought  from  her  dwelling  place,  and  dost  control 

The  passion  of  existence  —  come  to  me, 

And  find  a  welcome  everlastingly. 

Bared  to  the  blasting  storm, 

1  see  thy  haggard  form, 

With  locks,  where  knotting  adders  twine, 

While  muttering  fiends  whisper  the  tardy  lashes, — 

Thy  tearless  eyeballs  redd'ning  with  the  flame, 

That  left  thy  heart  in  ashes.  — 

I  see  thee,  and  1  know  thee  to  be  mine  ! 

My  soul  shall  course  with  thee  through  the  sulph'rous  air, 

And  light  upon  the  avalanche  on  high, 

Waiting  the  wind's  command  ; 

And  thou  shalt  near  me  stand, 

And  chain  me  with  the  horrors  of  thine  eye  — 

I'll  float  with  thee  upon  the  stagnant  main, 

When  death  looks  famished  at  me,  and  again 

Court  the  volcano's  wrath  — 

Where  lies  the  rotting  path 


DESPAIR.  341 


Of  pestilence,  or  desolation  wild  — 

Where  earthquakes  split  the  mountains,  and  o'erthrow 

What  centuries  have  piled  — 

Spirit,  I'll  go  !  wherever  havoc  dare, 

And  dream  a  life-in-death  of  endless  agony. 


THE   DIVISION   OF  THE   EARTH. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SCHILLER. 

"  TAKE  ye  the  world!"  said  Love,  from  his" high  heaven, 
Addressing  man ;  "  and  let  it  be  your  own,  — 

"  A  never-ending  patrimony  given  ;  — 
"Divide  it  now,  as  brothers  do,  alone." 

All  hands,  forthwith,  were  busy  in  providing, 
The  young  and  old  strove  eagerly  for  gain ;  — 

The  husbandmen,  the  fertile  fields  dividing, 
The  nobleman,  the  forest  and  the  plain. 

The  merchant  crammed  his  storehouse  to  the  ridges, 
The  abbot  chose  the  most  delicious  wine, 

The  king  shut  up  the  highways  and  the  bridges, 
And  said :  —  "A  tithe  of  every  thing  is  mine  !" 

Long  after  the  division  was  completed, 
Far  wandering  the  poet  then  applied  ;  — 

Alas !  no  chance  his  anxious  wishes  greeted, 
For  not  a  thing  remained  unoccupied. 


THE    DIVISION    OF    THE    EARTH.  343 

"Ah,  wo  is  me  !  am  I  then  of  al]  living, 

Thy  most  devoted  son,  bereft  alone  !" 
Thus  wailing,  Echo  took  what  grief  was  giving, 

And  wafted  it  to  Jove's  celestial  throne. 

«  If  thou  within  the  land  of  dreams  hast  tarried," 

Said  Jove,  —  « thou  never  shouldst  complain  to  me ;  — 

Where  wast  thou  when  the  chances  were  all  carried  V 
"1  was,"  replied  the  luckless  bard,  "with  thee  !" 

"  My  vision  then  was  bathing  in  thy  beauty,  — 
Mine  ear  was  drinking  music  from  the  spheres ;  — 

Forgive  the  mind  thy  light  has  led  from  duty, 
And  blinded  to  all  sublunary  fears  !" 

"  What  can  be  done  1 "  said  Jove  :  —  "the  world  is  given, — 
Its  wealth  and  pleasures  flow  no  more  from  me  ; 

But  if  thou  wilt  reside  with  me  in  heaven, 
Whene'er  thou  com'st  'twill  open  still  to  thee  !" 


THE    END. 


29 


s.  COLMAN'S  PUBLICATIONS.  9 

X. 

WILLY'S  STORIES.    BY  JANE  MARCET, 
In  a  new  and  beautiful  style,  making  Vol.  I.  of  «  A  Mother's 
Library  for  little  Folks." 

XI. 

THE  BIRTH-DAY,  FOR  LITTLE  HEADS  AND  HEARTS. 
Making  Vol.  II.  of  «A  Mother's  Library  for  Little  Folks." 

XII. 

RHYMES  FOR  MY  CHILDREN.    Br  A  MOTHER. 
This  little  volume  is  a  collection  of  moral  stories  in  rhyme, 
and  "  will  bear  the  test  of  criticism." 


10  s.  COLMAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


IN  PREPARATION, 

LIBRARY  OF  AMERICAN  POETRY. 


A   DRAMATIC   LIBRARY. 

L 

ATHENIA  OF  DAMASCUS.    BY  RUFUS  DAWES. 

II. 
BIANCA  V1SCONTI.    BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 


A  NEW  GUIDE  TO  LONDON ;  adapted  particularly  to 
.improve  the  time  when  there,  and  on  an  economical  plan. 

THE  CHILD'S  GEM,  No.  3,  for  1840. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  LIBRARY.    BY  MARY  HOWITT. 
Vol.  1.  for  1840. 

A  WORK  on  Natural  History,  beautifully  illustrated ; — 
with  several  other  delightful  Gifts. 


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